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NITEB STATES OF «M KIM i\A. 



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CHAPTERS 



CHURCHYARDS. 



ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN 

BLACKWOOD'S EDINBURGH MAGAZINE. 



EDINBURGH: PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND HUGHES. 
PAUL'S WORK, CANONGATE. 



CHAPTERS 



CHURCHYARDS 



CAROLINE^SOUTHEY, 

AUTHORESS OF "SOLITARY HOURS, 
&c. &c. &c. 



A NEW EDITION. 



WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, 

EDINBURGH AND LONDON. 

MDCCCXLI. 



T ^a 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Churchyards Chap. 1 1 

Chap.II 8 

Chap, in 16 

Chap. IV 33 

Chap. V 44 

Chap. VI 58 

Chap. VII 72 

Chap. VIII 86 

Chap. IX 99 

Broad Summerford Chap. X 121 

Chap. XI 137 

Chap. XII 157 

The Haunted Churchyard Chap. XIII 174 

Andrew Cleaves Chap. XIV 195 

Chap. XV 217 

Chap. XVI 232 

Chap. XVII 242 

Chap. XVIII 253 

Chap. XIX 267 

The Grave of the Broken Heart. Chap. XX 279 

Chap. XXI 293 

Chap. XXII 305 

Chap. XXIII .-...324 

Chap. XXIV 340 

Chap. XXV 352 

Chap. XXVI 369 



CHAPTERS 



CHURCHYARDS. 



CHAPTER I. 



Many are the idle tourists who have babbled of country 
churchyards — many are the able pens which have been 
employed on the same subjects. One in particular, in 
the delightful olio of the " Sketch-book," has traced a 
picture so true to nature, so beautifully simple and pathe- 
tic, that succeeding essayists might well despair of success 
in attempting similar descriptions, were not the theme, 
in fact, inexhaustible, a source of endless variety, a vo- 
lume of instructive records, whereof those marked with 
least incident are yet replete with interest for that human 
being who stands alone amongst the quiet graves, musing 
on the mystery of his own existence, and on the past and 
present state of those poor relics of mortality which every 
where surround him, mouldering beneath his feet — ming- 
ling with the common soil — feeding the rank churchyard 
vegetation — once sentient like himself with vigorous life, 
subject to all the tumultuous passions that agitate his 






J CHURCHYARDS. 

own heart, pregnant with a thousand busy schemes, ele- 
vated and depressed by alternate hopes and fears — liable, 
in a word, to all the pains, the pleasures, and " the ills, 
that flesh is heir to." 

The leisurely traveller arriving- at a country inn, with 
the intention of tarrying a day, an hour, or a yet shorter 
period, in the town or village, generally finds time to 
saunter towards the church, and even to loiter about its 
surrounding graves, as if his nature (solitary in the midst 
of the living crowd) claimed affinity, and sought com- 
munion, with the populous dust beneath his feet. 

Such, at least, are the feelings with which I have often 
lingered in the churchyard of a strange place, and about 
the church itself — to which, indeed, in all places, and in 
all countries, the heart of the Christian pilgrim feels it- 
self attracted as towards his very home, for there at least, 
though alone amongst a strange people, he is no stranger : 
It is his Father's house. 

I am not sure that I heartily approve the custom — 
rare in this country, but frequent in many others — of 
planting flowers and flowering shrubs about the graves. 
I am quite sure that I hate all the sentimental mummery 
with which the far-famed burying-place of the Pere la 
Chaise is garnished out. It is faithfully in keeping with 
Parisian taste, and perfectly in unison with French feel- 
ing ; but I should wonder at the profound sympathy with 
which numbers of my own countrymen expatiate on that 
pleasure-ground of Death, if it were still possible to feel 
surprise at any instance of degenerate taste and perverted 
feeling in our travelled islanders — if it were not, too, 
the vulgarest thing in the world to wonder at any thing. 

The custom, so general in Switzerland, and so com- 
mon in our own principality of Wales, of strewing flowers 
over the graves of departed friends, either on the anni- 



CHAPTER I. 5 

versaries of their deaths, or on other memorable days, is 
touching and beautiful. Those frail blossoms scattered 
over the green sod, in their morning freshness, but for a 
little space retain their balmy odours, and their glowing 
tints, till the sun goes down, and the breeze of evening 
sighs over them, and the dews of night fall on their pale 
beauty, and the withered and fading wreath becomes a 
yet more appropriate tribute to the silent dust beneath. 
But rose-trees in full bloom, and tall staring lilies, and 
flaunting lilacs, and pert priggish spirafrutexes, are, me- 
thinks, ill in harmony with that holiness of perfect repose 
which should pervade the last resting-place of mortality. 
Even in our own unsentimental England, I have seen 
two or three of these flower-plot graves. One, in par- 
ticular, I remember, had been planned and planted by a 
young disconsolate widow, to the memory of her deceased 
partner. The tomb itself was a common square erection 
of freestone, covered over with a slab of black marble, on 
which, under the name, age, &c, of the defunct, was en- 
graven an elaborate epitaph, commemorating his many 
virtues, and pathetically intimating, that, at no distant 
period, the vacant space remaining on the same marble 
would receive the name of " his inconsolable Eugenia." 
The tomb was hedged about by a basket-work of honey- 
suckles. A Persian lilac drooped over its foot, and, at 
the head, (substituted for the elegant cypress, coy denizen 
of our ungenial clime,) a young poplar perked up its 
pyramidical form. Divers other shrubs and flowering 
plants completed the ring-fence, plentifully interspersed 
with " the fragrant weed, the Frenchman's darling,'' 
whose perfume, when I visited the spot, was wafted over 
the whole churchyard. It was then the full flush of sum- 
mer. The garden had been planted but a month ; but the 
lady had tended, and propped, and watered those gay 



4 CHURCHYARDS. 

strangers with her own delicate hands, evermore in the 
dusk of evening returning to her tender task, so that they 
had taken their removal kindly, and grew and flourished 
as carelessly round that cold marble, and in that field of 
graves, as they had done heretofore in their own shel- 
tered nursery. 

A year afterwards — a year almost to a day — I stood 
once more on that same spot, in the same month — " the 
leafy month of June." But — it was leafless there. The 
young poplar still stood sentinel in its former station, but 
dry, withered, and sticky, like an old broom at the mast- 
head of a vessel on sale. The parson's cow, and his half 
score fatting wethers, had violated the sacred enclosure, 
and trodden down its flowery basket-work into the very 
soil. The plants and shrubs were nibbled down to miser- 
able stumps, and from the sole survivor, the poor strag- 
gling lilac, a fat old waddling ewe had just cropped the 
last sickly flower-branch, and stood staring at me with a 
pathetic vacancy of countenance, the half-munched con- 
secrated blossom dangling from her sacrilegious jaws. 
" And is it even so?" I half-articulated, with a sudden 
thrill of irrepressible emotion. " Poor widowed mour- 
ner ! lovely Eugenia ! Art thou already re-united to the 
object of thy faithful affection? And so lately! Not yet 
on that awaiting space on the cold marble have they in- 
scribed thy gentle name. And those fragile memorials ! 
were there none to tend them for thy sake ?" Such was 
my sentimental apostrophe ; and the unwonted impulse 
so far incited me, that I actually pelted away the sheep 
from that last resting-place of faithful love, and reared 
against its side the trailing branches of the neglected 
lilac. Well satisfied with myself for the performance of 
this pious act, I turned from the spot in a mood of calm, 
pleasing melancholy, that, by degrees, (while I yet lin- 



CHAPTER I. 5 

gered about the churchyard,) resolved itself into a train 
of poetic reverie, and I was already far advanced in a sort 
of elegiac tribute to the memory of that fair being, whose 
tender nature had sunk under the stroke " that reft her 
mutual heart," when the horrid interruption of a loud 
shrill whistle startled me from my poetic vision, cruelly 
disarranging the beautiful combination of high- wrought 
tender, pathetic feelings, which were flowing naturally 
into verse, as from the very fount of Helicon. Lifting 
my eyes towards the vulgar cause of this vulgar disturb- 
ance, the cow-boy (for it was he, " who whistled as he 
went, for want of thought") nodded to me his rustic 
apology for a bow, and passed on towards the very tomb 
I had just quitted, near which his milky charge, the old 
brindled cow, still munched on, avaricious of the last 
mouthful. If the clown's obstreperous mirth had before 
broken in on my mood of inspiration, its last delicate 
glow was utterly dispelled by the uncouth vociferation, 
and rude expletives, with which he proceeded to dislodge 
the persevering animal from her rich pasture* ground. 
Insensible alike to his remonstrances, his threats, or his 
tender persuasion — to his " Whoy ! whoy ! old girl ! 
Whoy, Blossom ! whoy, my lady ! — I say, come up, do ; 
come up ye plaguey baste ! " Blossom continued to munch 
and ruminate with the most imperturbable calmness — 
backing and sideling away, however, as her pursuer made 
nearer advances, and ever and anon looking up at him 
with most provoking assurance, as if to calculate how 
many tufts she might venture to pull before he got fairly 
within reach of her. And so, retrograding and man- 
oeuvring, she at last intrenched herself behind the identi- 
cal tombstone beside which I had stood so lately in solemn 
contemplation. Here — the cow-boy's patience being 
completely exhausted — with the intention of switching 



6 CHURCHYARDS. 

old Blossom from her last stronghold, he caught up, and 
began tearing from the earth, that one long straggling 
stem of lilac which I had endeavoured to replace in some- 
what of its former position. " Hold ! hold ! " I cried, 
springing forward with the vehement gesture of impas- 
sioned feeling — " Have you no respect for the ashes of 
the dead ? Dare you thus violate with sacrilegious hands 
the last sad sanctuary of faithful love ?" The boy stood 
like one petrified, stared at me for a moment, with a look 
of indescribable perplexity, then screwing one corner of 
his mouth almost into contact with the corresponding 
corner of one crinkled-up eye — at the same time shoving 
up his old ragged hat, and scratching his curly pate ; and 
having, as I suppose, by the help of that operation, con- 
strued my vehement address into the language of inquiry, 
he set himself very methodically about satisfying my cu- 
riosity on every point wherever he conceived it possible 
I might have interrogated him — taking his cue, with 
some ingenuity, from the one word of my oration which 

was familiar to his ear " Dead ! Ees, Squoire been 

dead twelve months last Whitsuntide ; and thick be his'n 
moniment, an' madam was married last week to our 
measter, an' thick be our cow — " 

Oh, Reader ! 
Is it to be wondered at, that, since that adventure, I have 
ever been disposed to look with an wrcglistening, and even 
cynical eye, on those same flower-plot graves ? Nay, that 
at sight of them, I feel an extraordinary degree of hard- 
heartedness stealing over me ? I cannot quit the subject 
without offering a word or two of well-meant advice to all 
disconsolate survivors — widows more especially — as to 
the expediency or non-expediency of indulging this flowery 
grief. Possibly, were I to obey the dictates of my own 
tastes and feelings, I should say, " Be content with a 



CHAPTER I. 7 

simple record — perhaps a scriptural sentence, on a plain 
headstone. Suffer not the inscription to become defaced 
and illegible, nor rank weeds to wave over it ; and smooth 
be the turf of the green hillock ! But if — to use a French 
phrase — II faut afficher ses regrets — if there must be 
effect, sentimentalities, prettinesses, urns, flowers — not 
only a few scattered blossoms, but a regular planted bor- 
der, like the garnish of a plateau ; — then, let me beseech 
you, fair inconsolables ! be cautious in your proceedings. 
Temper with discreet foresight (if that be possible) the 
first agonizing burst of sensibility — Take the counsels of 
sage experience — temporize with the as yet unascertained 
nature of your own feelings — Proclaim not those vege- 
table vows of eternal fidelity — Refrain, at least, from the 
trowel and the spade — Dig not — plant not — For one 
year only — for theirs* year, at least — For one year only, 
I beseech you — sow annuals. 



CHURCHYARDS. 



CHAPTER II. 

In parts of Warwickshire, and some of the adjacent 
counties, more especially in the churchyards of the larger 
towns, the frightful fashion of black tombstones is almost 
universal. Black tombstones, tall and slim, and lettered 
in gold, looking, for all the world, like bolt upright coffin 
lids. I marvel the worthy natives do not go a step far- 
ther in their tasteful system, and coat their churches 
over with the same lugubrious hue, exempting only the 
brass weathercocks, and the gilded figures on the clock 
faces. The whole scene would unquestionably be far 
more in keeping, and even sublime in stupendous ugli- 
ness. Some village burying-grounds have, however, 
escaped this barbarous adornment ; and in Warwickshire 
particularly, and within the circuit of a few miles round 
Warwick itself, are very many small, picturesque, hamlet 
churches, each surrounded by its lowly flock of green 
graves, and grey headstones ; the churchyards, for the 
most part, separated only by a sunk fence, or a slight 
railing, from the little sheltered grass-plot of a small neat 
rectory, the casements of which generally front the long 
east window of the church. I like this proximity of the 
pastor's dwelling to his Master's house ; nay, of the abode 
of the living to the sanctuary of the dead. It seems to 
me to remove in part the great barrier of separation be- 
tween the two worlds. The end of life, it is true, lies 
before us. The end of this life, with all its host of vani- 
ties and perturbations ; — but immediately from thence, 
we step upon the threshold of the holy place, before the 



CHAPTER II. 9 

gates of which no commissioned angel stands with a flam- 
ing- sword, barring our entrance to the tree of life. It 
would seem to me that thus abiding, as it were, under 
the very shadow of the sacred walls, and within sight of 
man's last earthly resting-place, I should feel, as in a 
charmed circle, more secure from the power of evil influ- 
ences, than if exposed to their assaults, on the great 
open desert of the busy world. Therefore, I like this 
proximity so frequently observable in the little hamlets I 
have described. In one or two instances, indeed, I per- 
ceived that attempts had been made to exclude the view 
of the church and churchyard from the rectory windows, 
by planting a few clumps of evergreens, that looked as 
unmeaningly stuck there as heart could wish. Miserable 
taste that ! " but let it pass," as the Courier said lately 
of one of your finest poetical articles, Mr North. 

I never saw a more perfect picture of beautiful repose, 
than presented itself to me in one of my evening walks 
last summer. One of the few evening walks it was pos- 
sible to enjoy during the nominal reign of that freezing, 
dripping summer. 

I came abruptly upon a small church, and burial 
ground, and rectory, all combined and embowered within 
a space that the eye could take in at one glance, and a 
pleasant glance it was ! 

The west window of the church was lighted up with 
red and glowing refulgence — not with the gorgeous hues 
of artificial colouring, but with the bright banners of the 
setting sun ; and strongly defined shadows, and mould- 
ings of golden light, marked out the rude tracery of the 
low ivied tower, and the heavy stone-work of the deep 
narrow windows, and the projections of the low massy 
buttresses, irregularly applied, in defiance of all archi- 
tectural proportion, as they had become necessary to the 



10 CHURCHYARDS. 

support of the ancient edifice. And here and there on 
the broken slanting of the buttresses, and on their pro- 
jecting ledges, might be seen patches of green and yellow 
moss, so exquisitely bright, that methought the jewellery 
with which Aladdin enchased the windows of his en- 
chanted palace, was dull and colourless, compared with 
the vegetable emeralds and topazes, wherewith " Nature's 
own sweet and cunning hand" had blazoned that old 
church. And the low headstones also — some half-sunk 
into the churchyard mould — many carved out into cheru- 
bim, with their trumpeters' cheeks and expanded wings, 
or with the awful emblems of death's-heads, cross-bones, 
and hour-glasses ! The low headstones, with their rustic 
scrolls, " that teach us to live and die," those also were 
edged and tinted with the golden gleam, and it stretched 
in long floods of amber light athwart the soft green turf, 
kissing the nameless hillocks ; and, on one little grave in 
particular, (it must have been that of an infant,) me- 
thought the departing glory lingered with peculiar bright- 
ness. Oh ! it was a beautiful churchyard. A stream of 
running wat^er intersected it almost close to the church 
wall. It was clear as crystal, running over grey pebbles, 
with a sound that chimed harmoniously in with the gene- 
ral character of the scene, low, soothing, monotonous, 
dying away into a liquid whisper, as the rivulet shrank 
into a shallow and still shallower channel, matted with 
moss and water plants, and closely overhung by the low 
underwood of an adjoining coppice, within whose leafy 
labyrinth it stole at last silently away. It was an un- 
usual and a lovely thing to see the grave-stones, and the 
green hillocks, with the very wild-flowers (daisies and 
buttercups) growing on them, reflected in the little rill 
as it wound among them — the reversed objects, and 
glancing colours, shifting, blending, and trembling, in 



CHAPTER II. 11 

the broken ripple. That and the voice of the water! 
It was "Life in Death." One felt that the sleepers be- 
low were but gathered for a while into their quiet cham- 
bers. Nay, their very sleep was not voiceless. On the 
edges of the graves — on the moist margin of the stream, 
grew many tufts of the beautiful " Forget me not.'* 
Never, sure, was such appropriate station for that meek 
eloquent flower ! 

Such was the churchyard, from which, at about ten 
yards' distance from the church, a slight low railing, with 
a latch wicket, divided off a patch of the loveliest green 
sward, (yet but a continuation of the churchyard turf,) 
backed with tall elm, and luxuriant evergreens, amongst 
which peeped modestly out the little neat rectory. It 
was constructed of the same rough grey stone with the 
church. Long, low, with far projecting eaves, and case- 
ment windows facing that large west window of the 
church, still flaming with the reflected splendour of the 
setting sun. His orb was sinking to rest behind the 
grove, half-embowering the small dwelling, which stood 
in the perfect quietness of its own shadow, tfye dark green 
masses of jasmine, clustering round its porch and win- 
dows, scarcely revealing (but by their exquisite odour) 
the pure white blossoms that starred " its lovely gloom." 

But their fragrance floated on the gentle breath of 
evening, mingled with the perfume of mignonette, and 
the long-fingered marvels of Peru, (the pale daughters of 
twilight,) and innumerable sweet flowers, blooming in 
their beds of rich black mould, close under the lattice 
windows. These were all flung wide, for the evening 
was still and sultry ; and one, opening down to the ground, 
showed the interior of a very small parlour, plainly and 
modestly furnished, but panelled all round with well-filled 



12 CHURCHYARDS. 

book-cases. A lady's harp stood in one corner, and in 
another two fine globes, and an orrery. Some small 
flower-baskets, filled with roses, were dispersed about 
the room ; and at a table near the window sat a gentle- 
man writing-, or rather leaning over a writing-desk with 
a pen in his hand, for his eyes were directed towards the 
gravel- walk before the window, where a lady- — an elegant- 
looking woman, whose plain white robe and dark unco- 
vered hair well became the sweet matronly expression of 
her face and figure — was anxiously stretching out her 
encouraging arms to her little daughter, who came laugh- 
ing and tottering towards her on the soft green turf, her 
tiny feet, as they essayed their first independent steps in 
the eventful walk of life, twisting and turning with 
graceful awkwardness, and unsteady pressure, under the 
disproportionate weight of her fair fat person. It was a 
sweet, heart-thrilling sound, the joyous, crowing laugh 
of that little creature, when with one last, bold, mighty 
effort, she reached the maternal arms, and was caught up 
to the maternal bosom, and half devoured with kisses, 
in an ecstasy of unspeakable love. 

As if provoked to emulous loudness by that mirthful 
outcry, and impatient to mingle its clear notes with that 
young, innocent voice, a blackbird, embowered in a tall, 
neighbouring bay-tree, poured out forthwith such a flood 
of full, rich melody, as stilled the baby's laugh, and for a 
moment arrested its observant ear. — But for a moment. — 
The kindred natures burst out into full chorus ; — the 
baby clapped her hands, and laughed aloud, and after her 
fashion, mocked the unseen songstress. The bird re- 
doubled her tuneful efforts ; and still the baby laughed, 
and still the bird rejoined ; and both together raised such 
a melodious din that the echoes of the old church rang 
again ; and never since the contest of the nightingale with 



CHAPTER II. 13 

her human rival, was heard such an emulous conflict of 
musical skill. 

I could have laughed for company, from my unseen 
lurking- place, within the dark shadow of one of the 
church buttresses. It was altogether such a scene as I 
shall never forget — one from which I could hardly tear 
myself away. Nay, I did not. I stood motionless as a 
statue in my dark-grey niche, till the objects before me 
became indistinct in twilight — till the last slanting sun- 
beams had withdrawn from the highest panes of the 
church window — till the blackbird's song was hushed, 
and the baby's voice was still, and the mother and her 
nursling had retreated into their quiet dwelling, and the 
evening taper gleamed through the fallen white curtain, 
and still open window. But yet before that curtain fell, 
another act of the beautiful pantomime had passed in 
review before me. The mother, with her infant in her 
arms, had seated herself in a low chair within the little 
parlour. She untied the frock-strings, drew off that and 
the second upper garments dexterously, and at intervals, 
as the restless frolics of the still unwearied babe afforded 
opportunity ; and there it was in its little coat and stay, 
the fat white shoulders shrugged up in antic merriment 
far above the slackened shoulder-straps. Then the mo- 
ther's hand slipped off one soft red shoe ; and, having 
done so, her lips were pressed, almost, as it seemed, in- 
voluntarily, to the little naked foot she still held. The 
other, as if in proud love of liberty, had spurned off to a dis- 
tance the fellow shoe ; and now the darling, disarrayed for 
its innocent slumbers, was hushed and quieted, but not yet 
to rest ; the night-dress was still to be put on, and the 
little crib was not there : — not yet to rest, but to the 
mighty duty already required of the young Christian ! — 
And in a moment it was hushed — and in a moment the 



14 CHURCHYARDS. 

small hands were pressed together between the mother's 
hands, and the sweet serious eyes were raised and fixed 
upon the mother's eyes, (there beamed, as yet, the infant's 
heaven,) and one saw that it was lisping- out its uncon- 
scious prayer — unconscious, not surely unaccepted. A 
kiss from the maternal lips was the token of God's 
approval : — and then she rose, and, gathering up the scat- 
tered garments in the same clasp with the half-naked 
babe, she held it smiling to its father, and one saw in the 
expression of his face, as he upraised it after having im- 
printed a kiss on that of his child — one saw in it all the 
holy fervour of a father's blessing. 

Then the mother withdrew with her little one — and 
then the curtain fell, — and still I lingered ; for, after the 
interval of a few minutes, sweet sounds arrested my de- 
parting footsteps. A few notes of the harp, a low 
prelude stole sweetly out — a voice still sweeter, mingling 
its tones with a simple, quiet accompaniment, swelled out 
gradually into a strain of sacred harmony, and the words 
of the evening hymn came wafted towards the house of 
prayer. Then all was still in the cottage, and around 
it ; and the perfect silence, and the deepening shadows, 
brought to my mind more forcibly the lateness of the 
hour, and warned me to turn my face homewards. So I 
moved a few steps, and yet again I lingered, lingered 
still; for the moon was rising, and the stars were shining 
out in the clear, cloudless heaven, and the bright reflec- 
tion of one danced and glittered, like a liquid fire-fly, on the 
ripple of the stream, just where it glided into a darker, 
deeper pool, beneath a little rustic foot-bridge, which led 
from the churchyard into a shady green lane, communi- 
cating with the neighbouring hamlet. 

On that bridge I stopped a minute longer — and yet 
another and another minute — for I listened to the voice 



CHAPTER II. 15 

of the running water : and methought it was yet more 
mellifluous, more soothing, more eloquent, at that still 
shadowy hour, when only that little star looked down 
upon it with its tremulous beam, than when it danced and 
glittered in the warm glow of sunshine. There are hearts 
like that stream, and they will understand the metaphor. 
The unutterable things I felt and heard in that mys- 
terious music ! — Every sense became absorbed in that of 
hearing ; and so spell-bound, I might have stayed on that 
very spot till midnight, nay, till the stars paled before 
the morning beam, if the deep, solemn sound of the old 
church clock had not broken in on my dream of profound 
abstraction, and startled me away with half incredulous 
surprise, as its iron tongue proclaimed, stroke after stroke, 
the tenth hour of the night. 



16 CHURCHYARDS. 



CHAPTER III. 

Within a short distance of my own habitation stands 
a picturesque old church, remote from any town or ham- 
let, save that village of the dead contained within the 
precincts of its own sequestered burial-ground. It is, 
however, the parish church of a large rural district com- 
prising several "small hamlets, and numerous farms and 
cottages, together with the scattered residences of the 
neighbouring gentry; and hither (there being no other 
place of worship within the parish boundary) its popula- 
tion may be seen for the most part resorting on Sundays, 
by various roads, lanes, heath-tracks, coppice and field- 
paths, all diverging from that consecrated centre. The 
church itself, nearly in the midst of a very beautiful 
churchyard, rich in old carved head-stones, and bright 
verdure roofing the nameless graves — the church itself 
stands on the brow of a finely wooded knoll, commanding 
a diversified expanse of heath, forest, and cultivated 
land ; and it is a beautiful sight on Sundays, on a fine 
autumn Sunday in particular, when the ferns are assu- 
ming their rich browns, and the forest-trees their exquisite 
gradations of colour, such as no limner upon earth can 
paint — to see the people approaching in all directions, 
now winding in long straggling files over the open com- 
mon, now abruptly disappearing amongst its innumerable 
shrubby declivities, and again emerging into sight through 
the boles of the old oaks that encircle the churchyard, 
standing in their majestic beauty, like sentinels over the 
slumbers of the dead. From two several quarters across 



CHAPTER III. 17 

the heath, approach the more condensed currents of the 
living stream ; one, the inhabitants of a far distant ham- 
let, the other, comprising the population of two smaller 
ones within a shorter distance of the church. And from 
many lanes and leafy glades, and through many field-paths 
and stiles, advance small groups of neighbours, and fami- 
lies, and social pairs, and here and there a solitary aged 
person, who totters leisurely along, supported by his 
trusty companion, his stout oak staff, not undutifully 
consigned by his neglectful children to that silent com- 
panionship, but willingly loitering behind to enjoy the 
luxury of the aged, the warmth of the cheerful sunbeams, 
the serene beauty of nature, the fruitful aspect of the 
ripening corn-fields, the sound of near and mirthful voices, 
the voices of children and grandchildren, and a sense of 
quiet happiness, partaking surely of that peace which 
passeth all understanding. 

And sometimes the venerable Elder comes, accom- 
panied by his old faithful helpmate, and then they may 
be seen once more side by side, her arm again locked 
within his as in the days of courtship, not, as then, rest- 
ing on his more vigorous frame, for they have grown old 
and feeble together; and of the twain, the burden of 
years lies heaviest upon the husband, for his has been the 
hardest portion of labour. In the prime of life, during 
the full flush of his manly vigour, and of her healthful 
comeliness, he was wont to walk sturdily onward, discour- 
sing between whiles with his buxom partner, as she fol- 
lowed with her little ones ; but now they are grown up 
into men and women, dispersed about in their several 
stations, and have themselves young ones to care and 
provide for ; and the old couple are, as it were, left to 
begin the world again, alone in their quiet cottage. Those 
two alone together, as when they entered it fifty years 



18 CHURCHYARDS. 

agone, bridegroom and bride — alone, but not forsaken — 
sons, and daughters, and grandchildren, as each can 
snatch an interval of leisure, or when the labours of the 
day are over, come dropping in under the honeysuckle 
porch, with their hearty greetings; and many a chubby 
great-grandchild finds its frequent way to Grannum's cot- 
tage ; many a school truant, and many a " toddlin' wee 
thing," whose little hand can hardly reach the latch of 
the low wicket, but whose baby call of " flichterin' noise 
an' glee" gains free and fond admittance. And now they 
are on their way together, the old man and his wife. 
See ! — they have just passed through the last field-gate 
leading thitherward to the church. They are on their 
way together towards the house of God, and towards the 
place where they shall soon lie down to rest " in sure and 
certain hope ;" and they lean on one another for mutual 
support ; and would it not seem as they are thus again 
drawn closer together, as they approach nearer to the term 
of their earthly union, as if it were a type and token of 
an eternal reunion in a better and a happier state ? 

I love to gaze upon that venerable pair — ay, even to 
note their decent, antiquated Sabbath raiment. What 
mortal tailor — no modern one to be sure — can have carved 
out that coat of indescribable colour — something of orange 
tawny with a reddish tinge ! I suspect it has once been 
a rich Devonshire brown, and perhaps the wedding-suit 
of the squire's grandfather, for it has had a silk lining, 
and it has been trimmed with some sort of lace, gold pro- 
bably ; and there adown each side are still the resplendent 
rows of embossed, basket-work, gilt buttons, as large as 
crown-pieces — it must have been the squire's grandfather's 
wedding suit. And how snowy-white, and how neatly 
plaited is the single edge of his old dame's plain mob cap, 
surmounted by that little black poke bonnet, flounced 



CHAPTER II. 19 

with rusty lace, and secured upon her head, not by strings, 
but by two long black corking pins ! That bit of black 
lace, of real lace, is a treasured remnant of what once 
trimmed her mistress's best cloak, when she herself was 
a blithe and buxom lass, in the days of her happy servi- 
tude ; and the very cloak itself, once a rich mode silk of 
ample dimensions, now narrowed and curtailed, to repair, 
with many cunning ingraftings, the ravages of time — the 
very cloak itself, with a scrap of the same lace frilled 
round the neck, is still worn on Sundays, through the 
summer aud autumn, till early frosts and keener winds 
pierce through the thin old silk, and the good red-hooded 
cloak is substituted in its stead. 

They have reached the churchyard wicket ; they have 
passed through it now, and wherefore do they turn aside 
from the path, a few steps beyond it, and stop and look 
down upon that grassy hillock? It is no recent grave, 
the daisies are thickly matted on its green sod, and the 
heap itself has sunk to a level nearly even with the flat 
ground. The little headstone is half-buried too, but you 
may read thereon the few words, the only ones ever en- 
graven there — " William Moss, aged 22." Few living 
now remember William Moss. Few at least think of 
him. The playmates of his childhood, the companions 
of his youth, his brothers and sisters, pass weekly by his 
lonely grave, and none turn aside to look upon it, or to 
think of him who sleeps beneath. But in the hearts of 
his parents, the memory of their dead child is as fresh as 
their affections for their living children. He is not dead 
to them, though eight-and-twenty years ago, they saw 
that turf heaped over his coffin — over the coffin of their 
eldest born. He is not dead to them ; and every Sabbath- 
day they tarry a moment by his lowly grave, and even 
now, as they look thereon in silence, does not the hear 



20 CHURCHYARDS. 

of each parent whisper, as if to the sleeper below — iC My 
son ! we shall go to thee, though thou shalt not return 
to us." 

Look down yonder under those arching hawthorns ! — 
what mischief is confederating there amongst those sun- 
burnt, curly-pated boys, clustering together, over the stile 
and about it, like a bunch of swarming bees ? The con- 
fused sound of their voices is like the hum of a swarm 
too ; and they are debating of grave and weighty matters 
— of nuts ripening in thick clusters down in Fairlee 
Copse — of trouts, of prodigious magnitude, leaping by the 
bridge below the Mill-head — of apples — and the young 
heads crowd closer together, and the buzzing voices sink 
to a whisper — " of cherry -cheeked apples, hanging just 
within reach of one who should climb upon the roof of the 
old shed, by the corner of the south wall of Squire Mills' 
orchard." — Ah, Squire Mills ! I would not give sixpence 
for all the apples you shall gather off that famous red- 
streak to-morrow. 

But who comes there across the field towards the stile ? 
A very youthful couple — sweethearts, one should guess, 
if it were not that they were so far asunder, and look as 
is they had not spoken a word to each other this half 
hour. Ah ! they were not so far asunder before they 
turned out of the shady lane into that open field, in sight 
of all the folk gathering into the churcbyard, and of those 
mischievous boys, one of whom is brother to that pretty 
Fanny Payne, whose downcast looks, and grave sober 
walk, so far from the young miller, will not save her 
from running the gauntlet of their teasing jokes as she 
passes — and pass she must, through the knot of conspi- 
rators. Never mind it, Fanny Payne ! put a good face 
on the matter, and above all, beware of knitting up that 
fair brow into any thing like a frown, as you steal a pass- 



CHAPTER III. 21 

ing glance at that provoking brother of yours ; it will 
only bring down upon you a thicker shower of saucy 
jests. 

See, see I that little old man — so old and shrivelled, 
and lean and wizen, and mummy-coloured ; he looks as if 
he had been embalmed and inhumed a century ago, and 
had just now walked out of his swathing bands, a speci- 
men of the year one thousand seven hundred and ten. 
His periwig is so well plastered with flour and hog's lard, 
that its large sausage side-curls look as durably consistent, 
as the " eternal buckles cut in Parian stone" that have 
immortalized Sir Cloudesley Shovel ; and from behind 
dangles half-way down his back, a long taper pig-tail, 
wound round with black riband, the which, about half- 
way, is tied into an elegant rosette. On the top of that 
same periwig is perched a diminutive cocked hat — with 
such a cock ! — so fierce ! — so triangular ! — the little squat 
crown so buried within its triple fortification ! The like 
was never seen, save in the shape of those coloured sugar 
comfits called cocked hats, that are stuck up in long 
glasses in the confectioners' windows, to attract the eyes 
of poor longing urchins ; and his face is triangular too, 
the exact centre of his forehead, where it meets the peri- 
wig, being the apex thereof; his nose is triangular; his 
little red eyes are triangular ; his person is altogether 
triangular, from the sloping narrow shoulders, to where 
it widens out, corresponding with the broad, square, fan- 
tail flaps of that green velveteen coat. He is a walking 
triangle I and he carries his cane behind him, holding it 
with both hands wide apart, exactly parallel with the 
square line of his coat flaps. See ! he is bustling up to 
join that small group of substantial farmers, amongst 
whom he is evidently a person of no small consequence ; 
they think him, <f as one should sav, Sir Oracle," for he 



22 CHURCHYARDS. 

knows every fluctuation of stocks to a fraction ; criticises 
the minister's discourses; expounds the prophecies ; ex- 
plains all about the millennium, and the number of the 
beast ; foretells changes of weather ; knows something 
of physic and surgery ; gives charms for the ague and 
rheumatiz ; makes ink, mends pens, and writes a wonder- 
ful fine hand, with such flourishes, that, without taking 
his pen off the paper, he can represent the figures of 
Adam and Eve, in the involutions composing the initial 
capitals of their names ! He is " Sir Oracle ;" and not 
the less so, because people do not exactly know what he 
has been, and where he comes from. Some think he has 
been a schoolmaster ; others conjecture that he has been 
a doctor of some sort, or a schemer in mechanics, about 
which he talks very scientifically ; or in the funds ; or in 
some foreign commercial concern ; for he has certainly 
lived long in foreign parts, and is often heard talking to 
his old grey parrot in some outlandish tongue, and the 
bird seems to understand it well, and replies in the same 
language. 

There are not wanting some who suspect that he has 
not been always in his perfect mind ; but however that 
may be, he is perfectly harmless now, and has conducted 
himself unexceptionably ever since he came to settle in 
the village of Downe, ten years ago. In all that time 
he has never been known to receive within his dwelling 
any former friend or kinsman, and he has never stirred 
beyond the boundary of the parish but to go once a-year 
to the banker's in the nearest town, to receive a small 
sum of money, for which he draws on a mercantile house 
in Lombard Street. He boards and lodges with a widow 
who has a neat little cottage in the village, and he culti- 
vates the finest polyanthuses and auriculas in the flower- 
plot, of which she has yielded up the management to him, 



CHAPTER III. 23 

that were ever beheld in that neighbourhood. He is 
very fond of flowers, and dumb animals, and children ; and 
all the children in the place love him, and the old white 
Pomeranian dog, blind of one eye, who follows his mas- 
ter every where except to church. Now, you know as 
much as I or any one knows of Master Jacob Marks, 
more, perhaps, than was worth telling, but I could not 
leave such an original subject half-sketched. 

Behold that jolly-looking farmer and his family ap- 
proaching up the green lane that leads from their habi- 
tation, that old substantial-looking farm-house yonder, 
half embowered in its guardian elms. 

They are a portly couple, the farmer and his wife ! He 
a hale, florid, fine-looking man, on whose broad open 
brow time has scarcely imprinted a furrow, though it has 
changed to silky whiteness the raven hue of those locks 
once so thickly clustered about his temples. There is a 
consciousness of wealth and prosperity, and of rural con- 
sequence, in his general aspect and deportment ; but if 
he loves the good things of this world, and prides him- 
self in possessing them, there is nothing in the expression 
of his countenance that bespeaks a selfish and narrow 
heart, or a covetous disposition. He looks willing to 
distribute of his abundance ; and greetings of cordial 
good-will, on both sides, are exchanged between the 
farmer and such of his labourers as fall into the same 
path in their way to the church. Arm-in-arm with her 
spouse marches his portly helpmate, fat, florid, and, like 
himself, " redolent" of the good things of this world, 
corn, and wine, and oil, that sustaineth the heart of man, 
and maketh him of a cheerful countenance. 

A comely and a stately dame is the lady of Farmer 
Buckwheat, when, as now, she paces by his side, resplen- 
dent in her Sunday-going garb of ample and substantial 



24 CHURCHYARDS. 

materials, and all of the very best that can be bought for 
money. One can calculate the profits of the dairy and 
the bee-hives, the pin-money of the farmer's lady — not 
to mention his weightier accumulations — by the richness 
of that black satin cloak and bonnet, full trimmed with 
real lace, and by the multitudinous plaits of that respect- 
able-looking snuff-coloured silk gown and coat. 

It is true her old-fashioned prejudices would have been 
in favour of a large double silk handkerchief, pinned 
neatly down, and a flowered chintz gown, drawn up 
through the pocket-holes over a white quilted petticoat ; 
but the worthy dame has two fair daughters, and they 
have been brought up at a boarding-school ; and they have 
half-coaxed, half-teased their Ma'a out of such antiquated 
vulgar tastes, though even those pertinacious reformists 
have been obliged to concede the point of a pelisse in 
favour of the satin cloak. But when they have conceded 
one point, they have gained at least two. See the old 
lady's short sleeves, neatly frilled just below the elbow, 
are elongated down to the wrists, and finished there by 
a fashionable cuff, out of which protrudes the red, fat, 
fubsy hand, with short dumpy fingers webbed between, 
broad, and turning up at the tips, looking as if they had 
been created on purpose to knead dough, press curds, and 
pat up butter ; and lo I on the forefinger of the right 
hand a great garnet ring set in silver, massy enough for 
the edge of a soup tureen. It is an heirloom from some 
great-grandmother, who was somehow related to some- 
body who was first cousin to a " Barrow-knight," and was 
herself so very rich a lady — and so the misses have rum- 
maged it out, and forced it down upon their Ma'a's poor 
dear fat finger, which sticks out as stiffly from the sensa- 
tion of that unwonted compression, as if it were tied up 
and poulticed for a whitlow ; and the poor lady, in spite 



CHAPTER III. 25 

of all hints and remonstrances, will walk with her gloves 
dangling in her hands, instead of on them ; and, altoge- 
ther, the short pillowy arms cased up in those tight cere- 
ments, with both the hands and all the fingers spread 
out as if in act to swim, look, for all the world, like the 
fins of a turtle, or the flaps of a frightened gosling. 
Poor worthy dame ! but a sense of conscious grandeur 
supports her under the infliction of this fashionable pen- 
ance. And then come the Misses Buckwheat, mincing 
delicately in the wake of their Pa'a and Ma'a, with artifi- 
cial flowers in their Leghorn bonnets, sky-blue spencers, 
fawn-coloured boots, flounces up to their knees, a pink 
parasol in one hand, and a pocket-handkerchief dangling 
from the other ; not neatly folded and carried with the 
handsome prayer-book, in the pretty fashion that so well 
becomes that fair modest girl, their neighbour's daugh- 
ter, whose profound ignorance of fashionable dress and 
manners is looked on as quite pitiable, " poor thing ! " 
by the Misses Buckwheat. For what are they intended, 
I wonder I For farmers' wives ? To strain milk, churn 
butter, fat pigs, feed poultry, weigh out cheeses, and 
cure bacon hogs ? Good-lack ! They paint landskips ! 
and play on the piano I and dance quadrilles ! and make 
bead-purses ! and keep albums ! and doat on Moore's 
Melodies and Lord Byron's Poems ! They are to be 
" tutoresses," or companions, or — something or other 
very genteel — ladies, for certain, any way. So they 
have settled themselves, and so the weak doating mother 
fondly anticipates, though the father talks as yet only 
of their prosperous establishment, (all classes talk of 
establishing young ladies now,) as the wives of wealthy 
graziers, or substantial yeomen, or farmers, or thriving 
tradesmen. But he drinks his port wine, and follows 
the hounds. And then, bringing up the rear of the 



26 CHURCHYARDS. 

family procession lounges on its future representative, 
its sole son and heir. And he is a smart buck, far too 
genteel to walk arm-in-arm with his sisters ; so he saun- ' 
ters behind, cutting off the innocent heads of the dang- 
ling brier-roses, and the tender hazel-shoots, with that 
little jemmy switch, wherewith ever and anon he flaps 
the long-looped sides of his yellow-topped boots ; and 
his white hat is set knowingly on one side, and he wears 
a coloured silk handkerchief knotted closely round his 
throat, and fastened down to the shirt bosom by a shining 
brooch — and waistcoat of three colours, pink, blue, and 
buff — a grass-green coat, with black velvet collar — and 
on his little finger (the wash leather glove is off on that 
hand) a Belcher ring as thick as the coil of a ship's cable. 
Well done, young Hopeful ! That was a clever aim ! 
There goes a whole shower of hazel-tops. What a pity 
your shearing ingenuity is not as active among the 
thistles in your father's fields. The family has reached 
the church-gate — they are entering now — and the farmer, 
as he passes through, vouchsafes a patronising nod, and 
a good-humoured word or two to that poor widow and 
her daughter who stand aside holding the gate open for 
him, and dropping humble curtsies to every member of 
the family. The farmer gives them now and then a few 
days' work — hoeing, weeding, or stoning, or at hay and 
harvest time, on his broad acres ; but his daughters won- 
der " Pa'a should demean himself so far as to nod famili- 
arly to such poor objects." They draw up their chins, 
flirt their handkerchiefs, and pass on as stiff as pokers. 
And last, in straggles Master Timothy — (He hates that 
name, by-the-by, and wishes his sponsors had favoured 
him with one that might have shortened buckishly into 
Frank or Tom, or — Tim won't do, and his sisters scout 
the barbarous appellation, and have re-christened him 



CHAPTER III. 27 

" Alonzo." They would fain have bestowed on him the 
name of Madame Cotton's interesting Saracen, Malek 
Adhel, but it was impossible to teach their mamma the 
proper pronunciation of that word, which she persisted 
in calling- " Molly Coddle") — In straggles Timothy 
Alonzo, but he is even more condescending than his 
papa, and bestows a very tenderly expressive glance at the 
widow's daughter as she drops her eyes, with her last and 
lowest curtsy to him. 

Well, they are gone by, thank Heaven I and the poor 
woman and her child follow at humble distance to their 
Master's house. They will not always be abased there. 
The widow Maythorn and her daughter Rachel are a very 
poor, but a very happy pair. Her daughter is sickly and 
delicate ; and folks say, in our country phrase, " hardly 
so sharp as she should be ;" but she has sense enough to 
be a dutiful child — to suffer meekly — to hope humbly — 
to believe steadfastly. What profiteth other knowledge ? 
The mother and daughter possess a little cottage, a bit 
of garden, and a cow that picks its scanty pasture on the 
waste. They work hard — they want often — but they 
contrive to live, and are content. The widow Maythorn 
and her daughter are a happy pair ! 

Yonder, winding slowly up that shady green lane, 
come the inmates of the parish workhouse — the in-door 
poor. First, the master, a respectable-looking middle- 
aged man, with somewhat of pompous sternness in his 
deportment ; but there is nothing hard or cruel in the 
expression of his eye, as ever and anon he looks back 
along the line of paupers, of all ages and sexes, so de- 
cently marshalled under his command. On the contrary, 
he hangs back to speak a few words of hearty encourage- 
ment to that weary old man who totters along so feebly 
on his crutches, under the burden of his fourscore years 



28 CHURCHYARDS. 

of toil and trouble, and the increasing load of his bodily 
infirmities. And the grateful look of old Matthew, and 
his cheerful, " Lord love ye, master ! " are elegant vouch- 
ers that, for once, the man " armed with a little brief 
authority" abuseth not his trust. The mistress has less 
dignity, but more severity of aspect, as her sharp, quick 
glance runs back, often and suspiciously, along the line 
of females ; and she calls them peremptorily to order if 
their voices are heard too voluble ; and she rebukes the 
straggling children, and denounces exemplary vengeance 
against those two detected urchins in particular — de- 
tected in the misdemeanour of skulking behind to pull 
those tempting clusters of almost ripe nuts that peep so 
invitingly from the high hazel hedge. But her denunci- 
ations are not listened to, it should appear, with any 
very vehement demonstrations of dread. I believe, o' my 
conscience, " her bark is waur than her bite ;" and that 
half her terrors lie in that long bowsprit nose, that looks 
as if it were sharpened to a point by the cross fire of 
those little red gimblet eyes, and in the sound of a voice 
shrill, cracked, and squeaking, like the tone of a penny 
trumpet. Very neat, decent, and respectable is the ap- 
pearance of the long line of parish poor. They are all 
comfortably clad in whole and clean apparel ; and even 
that poor idiot who brings up the rear, straggling in and 
out of the file of children — (who can restrain his vaga- 
ries ?) — Even he is clothed in good grey woollen, and a 
whole new hat, in lieu of the scarlet tatters, and old bat- 
tered soldier's helmet, with its ragged red and white 
feather, in which he delights to decorate his poor little 
deformed figure on week-days, calling himself corporal, 
captain, general, or drum-major, as the whim of the mo- 
ment rules his wayward fancy — each grade, as he assumes 
it, the most honourable in his estimation. They are 



CHAPTER III. 29 

gone by, all of them — men, women, and children — the 
two culprits still lagging in the rear. I wager they have 
another pluck at the forbidden fruit on their way back to 
the workhouse. 

More children still ! — marshalled in double files ! Boys 
and girls, three scores at least ; each sex uniformly clad ; 
the master and mistress leading the van of their respective 
divisions. That is the subscription charity-school, and 
the children have just donned their new clothing ; and do 
but see, poor urchins ! what hogs in armour some of them 
look like ? Good clothing it is — warm and decent, and 
of durable material ; thick grey frieze for the boys, with 
dark blue worsted hose, and black beaver hats — black 
hats, at least ; and for the girls, grogram gowns, and 
wild-boar petticoats ; (reader, did you ever hear of such 
materials ?) and stiff enough they are, Heaven knows ; 
and as the things are all sent down ready made from a 
London warehouse, they are of necessity pretty much of 
the same size, as having the better chance to Jit, or, at 
all events, to do for all. So you shall see a poor little 
boy muffled up in a coat that looks like his grandfather's 
great-coat, the flaps of which dangle almost to the ground; 
the collar is turned half-way down his back, or it would 
mount up so high as to bury his head, which is indeed 
already buried under a hat, the brim of which rests upon 
his shoulders and the bridge of his nose ; and when he 
hangs down his arms, you cannot see so much as the tip 
of his fingers peeping from within those long enormous 
sleeves. To complete the picture of comfort, he skuffs 
along in a pair of shoes, the stiff upper leathers of which 
reach up to the middle of his shins, and the poor little 
legs stick in them like two chumpers in a couple of but- 
ter churns. Altogether, he looks like a dangling scare- 
crow set up in a corn-field. 



30 CHUHCHYAEDS. 

But, then, the little muffled man presents a fine con- 
trast to his alongside mate. His long-tailed coat makes 
him a short jacket. His arms are squeezed through the 
sleeves to be sure, but then they stick out like wooden 
pins on either side, with excessive tightness ; and there, 
see ! dangles half a yard of red lean wrist, and all the 
blood in his body seems forced down into those great, 
blue, bony knuckles. It was a good hearty thump, certes, 
that jammed down that stiff skimming-dish of a hat, even 
to where it now reaches on his unlucky pate. The great, 
flat, unhemmed red ears stick out from under it like two 
red-cabbage leaves ; and for his shoes I — the blacksmith 
would have shod him better, and have inflicted less pain 
in the operation ; for, see ! his feet are doubled up in 
them, into the form of hoofs, and he hobbles along, poor 
knave ! like a cat in pattens, or as if the smooth green 
lane were paved with red-hot flints. And the girls are 
not much better off. Some draggle long trains after 
them, and have waists down to their hips ; others are 
wellnigh kilted ; and that long lanky girl there, Jenny 
Andrews, would reveal far more than a decent propor- 
tion of those heron legs of hers, were it not that she has 
ingeniously contrived to tie the wild-boar petticoat a reef 
below the grogram gown, thereby supplying the deficien- 
cies of the latter. — Well, they are all new clothed, how- 
ever, spick and span, and all very proud of being so. 
Even he of the crumpt-up toes, who will soon poke his 
way through those leathern fetters, and in the mean time 
limps along in contented misery. " New clothes !" thinks 
he — U Good clothes! handsome clothes !" thinks Madam 
Buckwheat. — " Fine clothes ! fashionable clothes !" think 
the Misses Buckwheat. — "Brave clothes ! pretty clothes !' 
thinks the poor idiot, when Monday comes, and he is 
allowed to resume his old scarlet tatters. All are puffed 



CHAPTER III. 31 

up with the self-same species of conceit, variously modi- 
fied, and so are many greater and many finer folks than 
they — ay, and many wiser ones too — many more talented. 
Witness Goldsmith, in his peach-blossom coat ; and John- 
son, (who ridiculed the poor poet's puerile vanity,) in his 
gala suit of fine brown broad-cloth. One spread his tail 
like a peacock, and strutted about to show off its gaudy 
colours ; the other, arrayed like the bird of wisdom, in 
grave and sombre plumage, was equally proud of the dig- 
nity it conferred, and oraculously opined, that a gentleman 
was twice a gentleman in a full dress suit. Vanity ! 
vanity ! thou universal leaven ! from what human heart 
art thou absolutely excluded ? 

Hark ! the trampling of horses, and the sound of 
wheels. The Squire's carriage sweeps round the corner 
of the churchyard. He and his family arrive thus early, 
that the horses may be stabled in that long low shed, 
appropriated for the purpose, and the servants ready to 
enter the church at the same time with their master, and 
to partake with him of the benefit and comfort of the 
confession and absolution. Some people seem to consider 
those parts of the service as a mere prelude — a sort of 
overture, as hackneyed, and about as solemn, as that to 
Lodoiska ; and if they reach their pews by the time they 
are half over, it is well. As for the servants, what can 
it signify to them? — There alights another carriage 
load — and another — and another — and the comers in a 
car, and in two tax-carts, and on sundry steeds ; and there 
the patrician party is congregating together round the 
great east door ; and there stands the clerk, with hat in 
hand, peering down the vicarage lane, under the penthouse 
of his other shading hand, for the first glimpse of the 
minister. Now, he descries the white face of the old roan 
mare. Another look, to be sure ; — it is indeed that sober- 



32 CHURCHYARDS. 

footed palfrey, bearing her reverend burden. And then 
he turns hastily into the belfry; and immediately the 
cracked chimes subside into a few quick single strokes, 
announcing the near approach of the clergyman, and the 
speedy commencement of divine service. That fine ruddy 
lad, with the white smock-frock, has been immovably 
posted at the churchyard wicket for the last half hour. 
His patience will accomplish its purpose. He is the first 
to start forward — hat in hand, and smoothing down his 
glossy yellow hair — to receive the bridle of the old man, 
which the vicar resigns into the hand of careful Will, 
with the usual charges, and a smile, and a few words of 
kind notice. 

The minister has passed into the vestry ; the clerk has 
followed him. A few more strokes and the bell ceases ; 
a few more seconds and the churchyard is left to its lonely 
silence, and to its quiet occupants ; and the living are 
gathered together, within those sacred walls, to hear the 
words of eternal life, on the surety whereof, the sleepers 
without — with whom they must one day lie down in the 
dust — have been committed to their narrow beds, " in 
sure and certain hope." 

But my discourse purported to be of Churchyards only, 
and I have rambled from my text. No matter ; I am 
come, as we all must, to the churchyard at last, and my 
next chapter shall be of " graves, and stones, and epitaphs " 



CHAPTER IV. 33 



CHAPTER IV. 

My next chapter, I think, was to be of " graves, and 
stones, and epitaphs." Come, then, to the churchyard 
with me, whoever shrinketh not from thoughtful inspec- 
tion of those eloquent sermon books. Come to that 
same churchyard where lately we saw the assembled 
congregation — the aged and the young — the proud and 
the lowly — the rich and poor collecting together on the 
Sabbath morning to worship their Creator within those 
sacred walls. Many months since then have slipped 
away ; the green leaves have withered, and dropped, and 
decayed, and the bare branches have been hung with 
icicles, and bent down under the weight of winter snows; 
and again they have budded and put forth their tender 
shoots, and the thick foliage of summer has cast its broad 
shadow on the dark green sod ; and again " decay's effa- 
cing fingers" are at work, and the yellow tints of autumn 
are gaining on the rich verdure of summer. And man ! 
— theephemeron ! who perisheth as a flower of the field — 
whose time on earth is like the shadow that departeth — 
how hath it fared with him during the revolving seasons ? 
How many are gone to their long home, and their place 
on earth knoweth them no more ! How many of those 
who, when last we looked upon this scene, stood here 
among their friends and neighbours, full of life and 
health, and the anticipation of long years to come, full 
of schemes, and hopes, and expectations, and restless 
thoughts, and cumbersome cares, and troubles and plea- 

c 



34 CHURCHYARDS. 

sures of this life ! How many of these are since return- 
ed to this spot ! — Yea — but to tarry here — to occupy 
the house appointed for all living- — to lie down and sleep, 
and take their rest, undisturbed by winter winds or sum- 
mer storms, unawakened by the chime of the church-bells 
when they summon hither the Sabbath congregation, or 
by the voices of those they loved in life, who pass by their 
lowly graves, already, perhaps, forgetful of " the form 
beloved," so recently deposited there ! 

" So music past is obsolete — 
And yet 'twas sweet ! 'twas passing sweet ! 
But now 'tis gone away." 

This is again a Sabbath-day — the eveningof an autum- 
nal Sabbath ; morning and afternoon divine service has 
been performed within those walls, and now Nature is 
offering up her own pure homage. The hymns of her 
winged choristers — the incense of her flowery censer — 
the flames of her great altar, that glorious setting sun. 
See ! how his departing beams steal athwart the church- 
yard between those old oaks, whose stately trunks, half 
defined in the blackness of their own shadow, half gilded 
by the passing brightness, prop that broad canopy of 
" many twinkling leaves" now glittering underneath 
with amber light ; while above, the dense mass of foliage, 
towering in heavy grandeur, stands out in bold and bleak 
relief against the golden glory of the western horizon. How 
magnificentthat antique colonnade! How grand that massy 
superstructure ! Lo ! the work of the great Architect, 
which might well put to shame the puny efforts of his 
creatures, and the frail structures they erect to his glory, 
were it not that He whom the heaven of heavens cannot 
contain, hath vouchsafed to promise, that where a lew 
faithful hearts are gathered together to worship him in 



CHAPTER IV. 35 

spirit and in truth, He will be there in the midst of them, 
even in their perishable temples. Therefore, though yon 
majestic oaks overtop with their proud shadow the low 
walls, and even the ivied tower of that rustic church, yet 
are they but a fitting- portico, an " outer porch," to the 
sanctuary more especially hallowed by his presence. Nei- 
ther is their spreading- arch too magnificent a canopy for 
those obscure graves so peacefully ranged beneath it. 
Many a sincere and humble Christian rests from his 
labours beneath those green hillocks. Many a faithful 
believer, who has drunk without a murmur his earthly 
cup of bitterness, because it was awarded to him by the 
divine will, and because, trusting in the merits of his 
Redeemer, he cast down his burden at his feet, looking 
forward through his promises to be a partaker of the 
glory which shall be revealed hereafter. Many a one, 
" to fortune and to fame unknown," who walked thus 
humbly with his God, sleeps unrecorded in the majestic 
shadow of those venerable trees. But when those giants 
of the earth shall have stood their appointed season — 
shall have lived their life of centuries — them also the 
unsparing hand shall smite, and they too shall lie pros- 
trate in the dust, and for their sapless trunks there shall 
be no renovation ; while the human grain, now hidden 
beneath their roots, retains, even in corruption, the prin- 
ciples of immortality, and shall, in the fulness of time, 
spring up to life eternal. 

What histories — not of great actions, or of proud for- 
tunes, or of splendid attainments, but of the human 
heart — that inexhaustible volume ! — might be told over 
these graves, by one who should have known their quiet 
tenants, and been a keen and feeling observer of their 
infinitely varying natures I nay, by one who should re- 
late* from his own remembrance, even the more obvious 



36 CHURCHYARDS. 

circumstances of their obscure lives ! What tales of 
love, and hope, and disappointment, and struggling- care, 
and unmerited contumely, and uncomplaining patience, 
and untold suffering, and broken hearts, might be ex- 
tracted from this cold earth we tread on ! What heart- 
wrung tears have been showered down upon these quiet 
graves ! What groans, and sighs, and sobs of uncontrol- 
lable grief, have burst out in this spot from the bosoms 
of those who have stood even here, on the brink of the 
fresh- opened grave, while the coffin was lowered into 
it, and the grating cords were withdrawn, and the first 
spadeful of earth rattled on the lid, and the solemn words 
were uttered — " Dust to dust ! " And where are those 
mourners now, and how doth it fare with them ? — Here ! 
they are here ! And it fareth well with them, for their 
troubles are over, and they sleep in peace amongst their 
friends and kindred ; and other mourners have wept be- 
side their graves, and those in turn shall be brought back 
here, to mingle their dust with that of foregone genera- 
tions. 

Even of the living multitude assembled here this day 
twelvemonths, how many, in the short interval between 
that and the present time, have taken up their rest 
within these consecrated precincts ! And already, over 
the graves of many, the green sods have again united in 
velvet smoothness. Here, beside that of William Moss, 
is a fresher and higher hillock, to which his headstone 
likewise serves for a memorial ; and underneath his name 
there are engraven on it — yes — two other names. The 
aged parents and the blooming son at last repose toge- 
ther ; and what matters now that the former went down 
to the grave by the slow and gradual descent of good old 
age, and that the latter was cut off in the prime and 
vigour of his manhood ? If each performed faithfully the 



CHAPTER IV. 37 

task allotted to him, then was his time on earth suffi- 
cient ; and, after the brief separation of a few years, they 
are reunited in eternity. But here — behold a magnifi- 
cent contrast to that poor plain stone ! Here stands a 
fine tali freestone, the top of which is ornamented in 
basso-relievo, with a squat white urn swaddled up in 
ponderous drapery, over which droops a gilt weeping 
willow ; it looks like a sprig of samphire, the whole set 
off by a blue ground, encircled by a couple of goose-wings. 
Oh ! no — I cry the sculptor mercy — they are the pinions 
of a pair of cherubim. There are the little trumpeters' 
cheeks puffing out from under them ; and the obituary is 
engraven on a black ground in grand gold letters ; and it 
records — Ah ! Madam Buckwheat — is it come to this ? 
Is all that majesty of port laid low? That fair exube- 
rance of well-fed flesh ? That broad expanse of comely 
red and white, " by Nature's sweet and cunning hand laid 
on." Doth all this mingle with the common earth? 
That goodly person clad in rustling silks ! is it shrunken 
within the scanty folds of the shroud, and the narrow 
limits of a cold brick grave ! What I in the very flush 
of worldly prosperity — when the farmer's granaries were 
overflowing with all manner of store — when your dairy 
had yielded double produce — when the stock of cheeses 
was unprecedented — when your favourite Norman had 
presented you with twin calves — when you had reared 
three broods of milkwhite turkeys, and the China sow 
had littered thirteen pigs ! — just as the brindled heifer of 
that famous cross was corning into milk — and just as the 
new barn was built, and the parish rates were lowered, 
and the mulberry-tree was beginning to bear — and just 
as you had brought yourself to feel at home in your long 
sleeves, and unfettered by the great garnet ring, and to 
wear gloves when you were out visiting ; and, to crown 



38 CHURCHYARDS. 

all, just as your youngest hope — your favourite daugh- 
ter — had made a splendid conquest of a real gentleman — 
one who had come down from Lunnon in his own shay, 
and talked about " Hastley's," and " the Hoppera," and 
"Wauxhal],"andthe"VildBeasts,'Wd"VaterlooBridge," 
and all them there things, and was to install Betsey (the 
old lady always forgot to say Eliza) lady and mistress 
of a beautiful " ouse" in Fleet Street. Oh I at such a time 
to be torn from " Life and all the joys it yields!" 
Ah, Madam Buckwheat ! is it so indeed ? Alas ! too 
true — 

" A heap of dust is all remains of thee. 

"lis all thou art, and all the proud shall he." 

Take care ! — never tread upon a grave — What ! you 
saw it not, that scarce distinguishable hillock, oversha- 
dowed by its elevated neighbour? It is, however, recently 
thrown up, but hastily and carelessly, and has of late been 
trodden down almost to a surface, by the workmen em- 
ployed in erecting that gilded " tribute of affection " to 
the memory of the farmer's deceased spouse. A {ew more 
weeks and it will be quite level with the even sod, and 
the village children will gambol over it unmindful of their 
old friend, whom yet they followed to that grave with 
innocent regretful tears, the only tears that were shed for 
the poor outcast of reason. The parish pauper sleeps in 
that grave — the workhouse idiot. He for whom no heart 
was tenderly interested ; for he had long, long outlived 
the poor parents to whom their only child, their harmless 
Johnny, (for they thought him not an idiot,) was an object 
of the fondest affection. There were none to take to him 
when they were gone, so the workhouse afforded him 
refuge, and sustenance, and humane treatment ; and his 
long life — for it was extended nearly to the term of 



CHAPTER IV. 39 

seventy years — was not, on the whole, joyless or for- 
saken. His intellect was darkened and distorted; but not 
so as to render him an object of disgust or terror, or to 
incapacitate him from performing- many tasks of trifling 1 
utility. He even exercised a sort of rude ingenuity in 
many little rustic handicrafts. He wove rush baskets 
and mats, and neatly and strongly wove them ; and of 
the refuse straw he plaited coarse hats, such as are worn 
by ploughboys ; and he could make wicker cages for 
blackbirds and magpies, and mouse-traps, and rabbit- 
hutches ; and he had a pretty notion of knitting too, only 
that he could never be brought to sit still long enough to 
make any great proficiency in that way. But he was 
useful, besides, in many offices of household drudgery ; 
and though his kind master never suffered poor Johnny 
to be " put upon," he had many employers, and, as far as 
his simple wits enabled him to comprehend their several 
wills, he was content to fulfil them. So he was sent to 
fetch water, and to watch that the coppers did not boil 
over, and to feed the fire, and blow the bellows, and sift 
the cinders, and to scrape carrots and potatoes, and to 
shell beans, and to sweep the floor, (but then he would 
always waste time in making waves and zigzags on the 
sand,) and to rock the cradles ; and that office he seemed 
to take peculiar delight in, and would even pretend to 
hush the babies, as he had seen practised by their mothers, 
with a sort of droning hum which he called singing. But 
besides all these, and other tasks innumerable, more ex- 
tended trust was committed to him, and he was never 
known but to discharge it faithfully. He was allowed 
(in exception of those rules of the house imperative on 
its sane inmates) to wander out whole days, having the 
charge of a few cows or pigs, and for a trifling remunera- 
tion, which he brought regularly home to his master, who 



40 CHURCHYARDS. 

expended it for him with judicious kindness, in the pur- 
chase of such simple luxuries as the poor idiot delighted 
in — a little snuff and tobacco, or the occasional treat of a 
little coarse tea and brown sugar. 

Then was old Johnny in his glory, when, seated on 
some sunny roadside bank, or nestling among the fern 
leaves in some bosky dingle, within ken of his horned 
or grunting charge, of which he never lost sight, he had 
collected about him a little cluster of idle urchins, with 
whom he would vie in dexterity in threading daisy neck- 
laces, or sticking the little white flowers on a leafless 
thorn branch, or in tying up cowslip balls, or in making 
whistles, or arrow-heads of hollow elder stalks ; or in 
weaving high conical caps of green rushes ; and then was 
Caesar in his element, for then would he arm with those 
proud helmets the heads of his childish mates, and mar- 
shal them (nothing loath) in military order, each should- 
ering a stick, his supposed musket ; and, flourishing his 
wooden sword, and taking the command of his new levies, 
he marched up and down before the line of ragged rogues, 
gobbling like a turkey-cock, with swelling pride, in all 
the martial magnificence of his old cocked-hat and fea- 
thers, and of his scarlet tatters with their tarnished lace. 

But sometimes was he suddenly cast down from that 
pinnacle of earthly grandeur by the malicious wantonness 
of an unlucky boy, who would slyly breathe out a few 
notes from an old flute, well anticipating their effect on 
poor Johnny. Rude as were those notes, they " entered 
into his soul." In a moment his proud step was arrest- 
ed ; his authoritative, uplifted hand fell nerveless by his 
side ; his erect head dropped, and large tears rolled down 
his aged face; and at last sobs — deep, heavy, convulsive 
sobs ! — burst from the bosom of the poor idiot, and then 
even his mischievous tormentor almost wept to see the 



CHAPTER IV. 41 

pain he had inflicted. Yes, such was the power of music, 
of its rudest, simplest tones, over some spring* of sensi- 
bility, deep hidden in the benighted soul of that harmless 
creature ; and he had apparently no control over the tem- 
pestuous ebullition of its excited vehemence, except at 
church during- the time of divine service. 

There, while the psalm was being- sung, he was still, 
and profoundly silent. But when others rose up from 
the form beside him, he sunk still lower in his sitting- 
posture, and cowering down, bent forward his head upon 
his knees, hiding- his face there within the fold of his 
crossed arms, and no sound or sob escaped him, but his 
poor frame trembled universally ; and when the singing- 
was over, and he looked up again, the thin grey hair on 
his wrinkled forehead was wet with perspiration. Now, 
let the clarion sound, or the sweet hautboy pour out its 
melodious fulness, or the thrilling flute discourse, or the 
solemn organ roll over his grave its deep and mighty 
volume, and he will sleep on undisturbed — ay, till the 
call of the last trumpet shall awaken him, and the mys- 
tery of his earthly existence shall be unfolded, and the 
soul, emerging from its long eclipse, shall shine out in 
the light of immortality. At that day of solemn reckon- 
ing, how many, whose brilliant talents and luminous 
intellect have blazed out with meteoric splendour not to 
enlighten, but to dazzle and mislead, fcnd bewilder the 
minds of their fellow-mortals in the mazes of inextricable 
error — how many of those who have so miserably abused 
the great trust reposed in them, shall be fain to exchange 
places with that unoffending innocent, crying out, in the 
agony of their despair, " to the mountains, fall on us, and 
to the hills, cover us !" 

Farewell, old Johnny — quiet be thy rest ! — harmless 



42 CHURCHYARDS. 

and lowly was thy life ! — peaceful and unnoticed thy 
departure ! 

Few had marked the gradual decline of the poor crea- 
ture ; but for many months he had wasted away, and his 
feeble, deformed frame had bowed nearer and nearer to 
the earth ; and he cared little for any nourishment, except 
his favourite regale of tea, and the mistress's occasional 
bounty — a slice of white bread and butter ; and there was 
less willingness to exert himself than formerly. He still 
crept about his accustomed tasks, but slowly and silently, 
and would sometimes fall asleep over his more sedentary 
employment ; and when spoken to, he seldom replied 
but by a nod and a smile — that peculiar smile of idiotic 
intelligence. Some said the old man grew lazy and sul- 
len, " for what could ail him ?" they wondered. Nothing 
— nothing ailed him — nothing to signify — only the cold 
hand of death was on him, and he dropped at last with the 
leaves in autumn. One evening, long after milking time, 
the cows he had been intrusted to watch came straggling 
home without their keeper. Search was made for him, 
and he was soon discovered by the children, who were 
well acquainted with his favourite haunts and hiding- 
places. 

They found him gathered up in his usual form, among 
the dry fern leaves, at the foot of an old hawthorn, near 
which ran a reedy streamlet. His back rested against 
the hawthorn's twisted stem, his old grey head was bare, 
and a few withered leaves had dropped upon it. Beside 
him lay a half-finished cap of woven rushes; one hand 
was on it, and the other still grasped the loose materials 
of his simple fabric. There was a smile upon his coun- 
tenance, (he was always smiling to himself,) but his head 
had dropped down on his bosom, and his eyes were closed 



CHAPTER IV. 43 

as if in sleep. He was dead — quite cold and stiff; so 
they took him from his pleasant fern bank to his late 
home, the workhouse, and the next day he was screwed 
down in the shell of rough boards, the last allowance of 
parish bounty, and before sunset those green sods were 
trampled down over the pauper's grave. — Farewell, old 
Johnny ! 



44 CHURCHYARDS. 



CHAPTER V. 

A little longer, yet a little longer, let us tarry in this 
secluded burial-ground. The sun's golden rim touches 
not yet the line of that bright horizon. Not yet have 
the small birds betaken themselves to their leafy homes, 
nor the bees to their hives, nor the wild rabbits to their 
burrows on the heath. Not yet, sailing like a soft fleecy 
cloud through the grey depths of twilight, hath the light- 
shunning owl ventured abroad on her wide winnowing 
vans, nor is the bat come forth, cleaving the dewy air 
with his eccentric circles. Tarry a little longer, even till 
the moon, that pale, dull, silvery orb, shines out un- 
eclipsed by the glories of her effulgent brother. Then 
will her tender light, glancing in between those ancient 
oaks, sleep sweetly on the green graves, and partially 
illumine that south-east angle of the Church Tower, and 
those two long narrow windows. And then will our 
walk homeward be delightful — far more so than even in 
the warm glow of sunset ; for then every bank and hedge- 
row will be glittering with dew in the pale silvery light, 
and every fern leaf will be a diamond spray, and every 
blade of grass a crystal spear ; and sparks of living fire 
will tremble on them, and glance out with their emerald 
rays from between the broad leaves of the coltsfoot and 
the arum. And then the wild honeysuckles (our hedge- 
rows are full of them) will exhale such sweets as I would 
not exchange for all the odours of the gardens of Damas- 
cus ; or if we go home by the heath-track, the wild 
thyme, and the widows'-wail, will enrich the air with 



CHAPTER V. 45 

their aromatic fragrance. On such a night as this will 
be, I never unreluctantly re-enter the formal dwellings 
of man, or resign myself to oblivious slumbers. Me- 
thinks how exquisite it would be, to revel, like a creature 
of the elements, the long night through in the broad 
flood of moonshine ! To pass from space to space with 
the fieetness of thought, " putting a girdle round about 
the earth in forty minutes," or to skim silently along on 
the stealthy moonbeams, to lonely places, where wells of 
water gush up in secret, where the wild deer come fear- 
lessly to drink, where the halcyon rears her young, and 
the water-lily floats like a fairy ship, unseen by human 
eye — and so, admitted to nature's sanctuary, blending as 
it were in essence with its pervading soul of rapturous 
repose — to be abstracted for a while from*dull realities, 
the thoughts and cares of earth that clog the inextin- 
guishable spirit with their dense vapours, and intercept 
its higher aspirations. What living soul, conscious of its 
divine origin, and of its immortal destination, but must 
at times feel weary of this probationary state, impatient 
of the conditions of its human nature, and of bondage in 
its earthly tabernacle ! What living soul, that has proved 
the vanity of all sublunary things, but has at times as- 
pirated with the royal Psalmist, " Oh that I had wings 
like a dove, for then would I flee away and be at rest ! " 

Hark ! there's a stir near us — a stir of footsteps and 
of human voices. It proceeds from within the church ; 
and see ! the porch doors are ajar, and also that low- 
arched doorway opening into the belfry. Those steps 
are ascending its dark, narrow stair; and then, hark 
again ! from within, a low, dull, creaking sound ; and 
then one long, deep, startling toll — another, ere the 
echoes of the first have died away over the distant woods. 
That sound is the summons of the grave. Some neigh- 



46 CHURCHYARDS. 

bouring peasant is borne to-night to his long home ; and, 
see ! as we turn this angle of the church, there, beside 
that broad old maple, is a fresh-opened grave. The dark 
cavity is covered in by two boards laid loosely over — but 
it will not be long untenanted. Let us look abroad for 
the approaching funeral, for, by the tolling of the bell, it 
must be already within sight. It comes not up that 
shady lane — no, nor by the broad heath road, from the 
further hamlet — nor from the direction of the Grange 
farm — but there — ah ! there it is, and close at hand, 
emerging from that little shrubby hollow, through which 
the road dips to the near village of Downe. Is it not a 
beautiful thing to gaze on, in this lovely secluded spot, 
by the light of that yellow sunset, the mellow hue of 
which falls with such a rich yet tempered brightness on 
the white draperies of those foremost in the procession ? 
It is a maiden's funeral — that, probably, of some young 
person ; for, see ! the pall is borne by six girls, each 
shrouded like a nun in her long white flowing hood, and, 
in lieu of the black pall, a white sheet is flung over the 
coffin. The lower classes are very tenacious of those dis- 
tinctive observances ; and many a young creature I have 
known, whose delight it seemed, during the last stages of 
some lingering malady, to arrange every thing for her own 
burial — the fashion of her shroud, and the flowerd they 
should strew over her in the coffin — the friends who 
should follow her to the grave, and the six of her young 
companions to be selected for her pall-bearers. Almost 
the very poorest contrive, on such occasions, what they 
call " a creditable burying" — even to the coarse refresh- 
ments distributed amongst the funeral guests. Poor 
souls ! long and sorely do they pinch for it, in their own 
few comforts, and in their scanty meals ; but the self- 
inflicted privation is unrepiningly endured, and who would 



CHAPTER V. 47 

take upon him, if it were possible, to restrain that holy 
and natural impulse to honour the memory of the dead ? 
See ! the train lengthens into sight as it winds up the 
ascent from that wild dingle. The bearers and their in- 
sensible burden are already near, and there follow the 
female mourners foremost. Ah ! I know now for whom 
that bell tolls — for whom that grave is prepared — whose 
remains are there borne along to their last resting-place. 
Close behind the coffin comes a solitary mourner — soli- 
tary in her grief — and yet she bears in her arms a help- 
less innocent, whose loss is even more deplorable than 
hers. That poor old woman is the widowed mother of 
Rachel Maythorne, whose corpse she is following to the 
grave ; and that unconscious baby who stretches out its 
little hands with laughing glee towards the white drapery 
of the coffin, is the desolate orphan of her only child — 
alas 1 of its unwedded mother. 

A dark and foul offence lies at his door who seduced 
that simple creature from the paths of innocence ! — A 
few words will tell her story ; but let us stop till the 
funeral-train has passed on into the church, from which 
the minister now advances to meet it. That poor child- 
less mother ! with what rapid strides have age and infir- 
mities overtaken her, since we saw her this time twelve- 
month holding open that very gate for the farmer's pros- 
perous family, and following them into church with 
contented humility, accompanied by her duteous Rachel. 
Then, she was still a comely matron, looking cheerful in 
her poverty, and strong to labour. Now, how bent down 
with age and feebleness does that poor frame appear! 
The burden of the little infant is one she can ill sus- 
tain, but to whom would she resign the precious charge ? 
She has contrived a black frock for the little creature — . 
probably from her own old gown — her widow's gown — 



48 CHURCHYARDS. 

for she herself has on no mourning- garment ; only an old 
rusty black willow bonnet, with a little crape about it of 
still browner hue, and a large black cotton shawl, with 
which she has covered over, as nearly as possible, that 
dark linen gown. She holds up no handkerchief to her 
eyes with the idle parade of ceremonial woe ; but her face 
is bent down over the baby's bosom, and drops are glis- 
tening there, and on its soft cheek, that never fell from 
those young-, joyous eyes. 

A few neighbours follow her — a few poor women — 
two and two, who have all contrived to make some show 
of decent mourning ; and those three or four labouring- 
men who walk last, have each a crape hat-band that has 
served for many funerals. They are all gone by now, 
the dead and the living. For the last time on earth the 
departed mortal has entered the House of God. While 
that part of the burial-service appointed to be read there 
is proceeding, a few words will tell her story. 

Rachel Maythorne was the only child of her mother, 
and she was a widow, left early to struggle with extreme 
poverty, and with the burden of a sickly infant, afflicted 
with epileptic fits, almost from its birth. The neigh- 
bours, many of them, said, " it would be a mercy, if so 
be God Almighty were pleased to take away the poor 
baby; she would never thrive, or live to be a woman, and 
was a terrible hinderance to the industrious mother." 
But she thought not so, neither would she have ex- 
changed her puny wailing infant, for the healthiest and 
the loveliest in the land : — she thought it the loveliest, 
ay, and the most intelligent too, though every body else 
saw well enough that it was more backward in every 
thing than almost any child of the same age. But it did 
weather out the precarious season of infancy, and it did 
live to be a woman, and even to enjoy a moderate share 



CHAPTER V. 49 

of health, though the fits were never wholly subdued, 
and they undoubtedly had weakened and impaired, though 
not destroyed her intellect. Most people at first sight 
would have called Rachel a plain girl, and she was, in 
truth, far from pretty, slight and thin in her person, and, 
from the feebleness of her frame, stooping almost like a 
woman in years. Her complexion, which might have 
been fair and delicate, had she been a lady and luxuriously 
reared up, was naturally pallid ; and exposure to sun and 
wind, in her out-door labours, had thickened it to a dark 
and muddy hue ; but there was a meek and tender ex- 
pression in her mild hazel eyes, and in her dimpled smile, 
and in the tone of her low quiet voice, even in the slight 
hesitation which impeded her utterance, that never failed 
to excite interest, when once they had attracted observa- 
tion. The mother and daughter lived a life of contented 
poverty ; the former, strong and healthful, found frequent 
employment as a charwoman, or in going out to wash, or 
infield-labour; the latter, brought up almost delicately, 
though the child of indigence, and still occasionally sub- 
ject to distressing fits, was principally occupied at home, 
in the care of their cow, the management of the little 
dairy, in the cultivation of their small patch of garden, 
(and small though it was, Rachel had her flower-knot in 
a sunny corner,) and in knitting and coarse needle-work 
In summer, however, she shared her mother's task in the 
hay-field, in mushroom-picking, and in the pleasant labour 
of the gleaners ; and how sweet was the frugal meal of 
that contented pair, when the burden of the day was 
over, and they sat just within the open door of their little 
cottage, over which a luxuriant jessamine had wreathed 
itself into a natural porch ! 

If Nature had been niggardly in storing the simple 
head of poor Rachel, she had been but too prodigal of 



50 CHURCHYARDS. 

feeling to a heart which overflowed with the milk of 
human kindness, whose capacity of loving seemed bound- 
less, embracing within its scope every created thing- that 
breathed the breath of life. We hear fine ladies and 
sentimental misses making- a prodigious fuss about sensi- 
bility, and barbarity, and " the poor beetle that we tread 
upon ;" but I do firmly believe simple Rachel, without 
even thinking of her feelings, much less saying a word 
about them, would have gone many steps out of her way, 
rather than set her foot upon a worm. It was a sore 
trouble to her, her annual misery, when Daisey's calf, that 
she had petted so fondly, was consigned to the butcher's 
cart, and while the poor mother lowed disconsolately 
about in quest of her lost little one, there was no peace 
for RacheL Every moan went to her heart. But her 
love, and pity, and kindness of nature, were not all ex- 
pended (as are some folks' sensibilities) on birds, and 
beasts, and black beetles. Her poor services were at the 
command of all who needed them ; and Rachel was in 
truth a welcome and a useful guest in every neighbour's 
cottage. She was called in to assist at the wash-tub, to 
take a turn at the butter-churn, to nurse the baby while 
the mother was more actively occupied, or to mind the 
house while the good-woman stepped over to the shop, or 
to watch the sick, while others of the family were neces- 
sitated to be about the daily labour that gained their daily 
bread ; she could even spell out a chapter of the Bible, 
when the sick person desired to hear its comfortable 
words. True, she was not always very happy in her 
selections. " It was all good;" so she generally began 
reading first where the book fell open, no matter if at the 
numbering of the twelve tribes, or at <l The Song of 
Solomon," or the story of " Bel and the Dragon." — 
" It was all good," said Rachel ; so she read on boldly 



CHAPTER V. 51 

through thick and thin ; and fine work, to be sure, she 
made of some of the terrible hard names. But the simple 
soul was right. — It was " all good." The intention was 
perfect ; and the spirit in which those inapplicable por- 
tions of scripture were almost unintelligibly read, found 
favour doubtless with Him who claims the service of the 
heart, and cares little for the outward form of sacrifice. 

A child might have practised on the simplicity of Rachel 
Maythorne ; and when April-fool day came round, on 
many a bootless errand was she sent, and many a marvel- 
lous belief was palmed upon her by the village urchins, 
who yet, in the midst of their merry mischief, would have 
proved sturdy champions in her cause, had real insult or 
injury been offered to the kind creature, from whom all 
their tormenting ingenuity could never provoke a more 
angry exclamation, than the short pathetic words, " Oh 
dear ! " One would have thought none but a child could 
have had the heart to abuse even in jest the credulous 
innocence of that unoffending creature. But the human 
" heart is desperately wicked ;" and one there was, so 
callous and corrupt, and absorbed in its own selfishness, 
as to convert into " an occasion of falling," the very 
circumstances which should have been a wall of defence 
about poor Rachel. 

It chanced that, towards the end of last year's harvest, 
the Widow Maythorne was confined to her cottage by a 
sprained ankle, so that, for the first time in her life, 
Rachel went out to the light labour of gleaning, unac- 
companied by her tender parent. Through the remainder 
of the harvest season, she followed Farmer Buckwheat's 
reapers, and no gleaner returned at evening so heavily 
laden as the widow's daughter. For the farmer himself 
favoured the industry of simple Rachel, and no reaper 
looked sharply towards her, though she followed him so 



52 CHURCHYARDS. 

close, as to glean a chance handful, even from the sheaf he 
was binding together. And she followed in the wake of the 
loaded waggons, from whose toppling treasures, as they 
rustled through the deep narrow lanes, the high hedges 
on either side took tribute; and though her sheaf acquired 
bulk more considerably than even from the golden hang- 
ings of the road side, no one rebuked the widow's 
daughter, or repelled her outstretched hand ; and one there 
was, who gave more than passive encouragement to her 
humble encroachments. And when the last waggon 
turned into the spacious rickyard, and the gleaners retired 
slowly from the gate, to retrace their way homeward 
through the same lanes, where a few golden ears might 
yet be added to their goodly sheaves, then Rachel also 
turned towards her home, but not in company with her 
fellow gleaners. For the young farmer led her by a 
nearer and a pleasanter way, through the Grange home- 
stead, and the orchard, and the hazel copse, that opened 
just on the little common where stood her mother's cot- 
tage, the first of the scattered hamlet. But though the 
way was certainly shorter, and there were no stiles to 
clamber over, and the young farmer helped Rachel with 
her load, by the time they reached the little common, 
lights were twinkling in all its skirting cottages, and the 
returned gleaners were gathered round their frugal supper- 
boards, and the Widow Maythorne was standing in her 
jessamine porch, looking out for her long absent Rachel, 
and wondering that she lingered so late, till the sight of 
her heavy burden, as she emerged from the dark copse, 
accounted for her lagging footsteps and tardy return. 
Her companion never walked with her farther than the 

copse, and he exacted a promise Alas! and it 

was given and kept, though the poor thing comprehended 
not why she might not make her dear mother partaker 



CHAPTER V. 53 

of her happy hopes ; but it was his wish, so she promised 
all he exacted, and too faithfully kept silence. So time 
passed on. The bright broad harvest moon dwindled 
away to a pale crescent, and retired into the starry depths 
of heaven, and then, again emerging- from her unseen 
paths, she hung out her golden lamp, to light the hunter's 
month. Then came the dark days and cloudy nights of 
November, and the candle was lit early in the widow's 
cottage, and the mother and daughter resumed their win- 
ter tasks of the spinning wheel and the knitting needles. 
And the widow's heart was cheery, for the meal-chest 
was full, and the potato-patch had yielded abundantly, 
and there stood a goodly peat-stack by the door ; and, 
through the blessing of Providence on their careful in- 
dustry, they should be fed and warmed all the long winter 
months ; so there was gladness in the widow's heart. 
But Rachel drooped ; at first unobserved by the fond 
parent, for the girl was ever gentle and quiet, and withal 
not given to much talking, or to noisy merriment ; but 
then she would sit and sing to herself like a bird, over 
her work, and she was ever ready with a smiling look 
and a cheerful answer, when her mother spoke to_, or asked 
a question of her. Now she was silent, but unquiet, and 
would start as if from sleep when spoken to, and fifty 
times in an hour lay by her work hastily, and walk to the 
door, or the window, or the little cupboard, as if for some 
special purpose, which yet seemed ever to slip away un- 
accomplished from her bewildered mind ; and sometimes 
she would wander away from her home for an hour or 
more together, and from those lonely rambles she was 
sure to return with looks of deeper dejection, and eyes 
still heavy with the traces of recent tears. The mother's 
observation once aroused, her tender anxiety soon fa- 
thomed the cruel secret. Alas ! unhappy mother — thou 



54: CHURCHYARDS. 

hadst this only treasure — this one poor lamb — who drank 
of thy cup, and lay in thy bosom, and was to thee a loving 
and a dutiful child ; and the spoiler came, and broke down 
thy little fence of earthly comfort, and laid waste the 
peaceful fold of nature's sweetest charities. 

The rustic libertine, whose ruthless sport, the amuse- 
ment of a vacant hour, had been the seduction of poor 
Rachel, soon wearied of his easy conquest, and cast her 
" like a loathsome weed away." He found it not at first 
an easy task to convince her of his own baseness, and in- 
tended desertion of her ; but when at last he roughly 
insisted on the discontinuance of her importunate claims, 
and the simple mind of his poor victim once fully com- 
prehended his inhuman will, she would have obeyed it in 
upbraiding silence ; but, alas ! her injuries were not to be 
concealed, and it was the hard task of the afflicted mother to 
appeal for such miserable compensation as the parish could 
enforce, to support her unhappy child in the hour of trial, 
and to assist in maintaining the fatherless little one. 
Three months ago it was born into this hard, bleak world; 
and though the child of shame, and poverty, and abandon- 
ment, never was the heir of a mighty dukedom more 
fondly welcomed, more dotingly gazed on, more tenderly 
nursed, than that poor baby : and it was a lovely infant. 
How many a rich and childless pair would have yielded 
up even to the half of all their substance, to be the parents 
of such a goodly creature ! All the sorrows of the for- 
saken mother, all her rejected affections, all her intense 
capabilities of loving, became so absorbed and concentrated 
in her maternal feelings, that when she looked upon her 
child, and hugged it to her -bosom, and drank in at her 
eyes the sweetness of its innocent smiles, it would have 
been difficult, perhaps, to have kept alive in her poor 
simple mind a repentant sorrow for her past fault, as 



CHAPTER V. 55 

associated with the existence of that guiltless creature. 
No one judged hardly of poor Rachel, though many a 
muttered curse, " not loud, but deep," was imprecated on 
her heartless seducer. She was still a welcome guest in 
every cottage — she who had ever been so ready with all 
her little services to every soul who needed them, was 
now welcome to sit with her infant in the low nursing- 
chair beside their humble hearths, or to lay it in the same 
cradle with their own little ones, while she busied her- 
self at her task of needle-work. It was a great comfort 
to the anxious mother to know, that, while she was absent 
from her cottage, her daughter had many a friend, and 
many a home, to which she might resort when her own 
was lonely, or when the peculiar symptoms with which 
she w r as familiar, warned her of an approaching fit. On 
such occasions, (and she had generally sufficient notice,) 
experience had taught her, that by flinging herself flat 
down on her face, either on the bed or floor, the attack 
was greatly mitigated in violence, and sometimes wholly 
averted ; and it had been hitherto an especial mercy, that 
the afflictive malady had never made its terrific approaches 
in the night season. Therefore it was, that the Widow 
Maythorne now and then ventured to sleep from home, 
when engaged in one of her various occupations, nurse- 
tending. So engaged, she left her cottage one evening 
of last week, and, not expecting to return to it before the 
afternoon of the ensuing day, she made it her provident 
request to a neighbour, that, if Rachel did not look in on 
her early in the morning, she would step across and see 
how it fared with her and her baby. Morning came, and 
the good-woman was stirring early ; and soon every cot- 
tage lattice was flung open, and every door unclosed, and 
the blue smoke curled up from every chimney but that 
of the Widow Maythorne's dwelling. There, door and 



56 CHURCHYARDS. 

window continued fast, and the little muslin curtain was' 
undrawn from within the chamber window. So the 
friendly neighbour, mindful of her promise, stepped across 
to the silent cottage, and it was not without an apprehen- 
sive feeling-, that she lifted up the latch of the garden 
wicket, before which stood the old cow waiting to be dis- 
burdened of her milky treasure, and lowing out, at inter- 
vals, her uneasy impatience at the unusual tardiness of her 
kind mistress. Fast was the door, and fast the chamber- 
window, and that of the little kitchen, and cold was the 
hearth within, and all was still as death, and no noise 
answered to the repeated knocks and calls of the friendly 
neighbour. She tried the chamber casement ; but it was 
fastened within, and the little curtain drawn before it 
precluded all view of the interior. But, while the dame 
stood close to it, with her face glued to the glass, her ear 
caught an indistinct sound, and in a moment she distin- 
guished the feeble wail of the little infant; but no mother's 
voice was heard tenderly hushing that plaintive murmur. 
Quickly the good dame summoned the assistance of a 
few neighbours — the cottage door was forced open, and 
they passed on through the cold empty kitchen into the 
little bed-chamber. There stood the poor uncurtained 
bed, whereon the widow and her daughter had slept side 
by side so lovingly, for so many quiet and innocent years, 
and where of late, the new-born babe had nestled in his 
mother's bosom. It was still clinging there — alas ! — to 
a lifeless breast. The living infant was already chilled 
by the stiffening coldness of the dead mother, who had 
been, to all appearance, for many hours a corpse. The im- 
mediate cause of her death was also too probably surmised. 
She had evidently expired in a fit ; and from the cramped 
posture in which she was discovered, it was also evident 
her first impulse had been to turn herself round upon her 



CHAPTER V. 57 

face, so to baffle the approaching crisis. But even at that 
fearful moment, maternal love had prevailed over the 
powerful instinct of self-preservation — she had turned 
half round, but stayed herself there, painfully supported 
in a cramped posture by the elbow of her right arm, while 
the left still clasped the baby to her bosom, and had stif- 
fened so in its last tender office. 



e>8 CHURCHYARDS. 



CHAPTER VI. 

Not far from the town of , in shire, where I 

passed some weeks in the early part of the present sum- 
mer, is the pleasant village of Halliburn, much resorted 
to by persons visiting- the county, sojourners in the adja- 
cent town — health-hunters, view-hunters, antiquity-hun- 
ters, felicity-hunters — Time-killers in short; to whom 
any thing serves for a lion, and as a point in view for an 
hour's excursion. But there are really things worth see- 
ing in and about that same village of Halliburn, as those 
friends can bear witness — those dear fellow view-hunters 
in whose company I explored it. They will remember, 
how, after sundry and various consultations, as to when 
we should go, and how we should go, and at what time, 
and for how long ; and, after consulting the Guide-book, 
and recalling all we had ever heard reported of this or 
that place by such or such a person — and after all talking 
together for an hour, and each suggesting a different plan, 
and one premising, on the best authority, that such a road 
was in an impassable state, and a second rejoining, from 
still better authority, that it was as smooth as a gravel- 
walk — and one prophesying it would rain, and the rest 
staking their lives that it would not rain — and some pro- 
posing to walk, and others to ride — and one voting for a 
car that would hold all, and another for a brace of donkey 
carts — the matter in debate at last resolved itself into 
something of a settled plan, our clashing votes subsiding 
like a parcel of little frothy waves into one great billow ; 
and it was definitively agreed that we should go to Halli- 



CHAPTER VI. 59 

burn — that we should dine early, and set out early, to 
enjoy a fine, long-, summer evening- in rambling- about 
there with our books and pencils — that we should go in a 
car — and that we should go that very evening*. 

Don't you remember all this, dear friends of mine ? 
and how quickly we despatched our dinner, and how we 
packed up the pencils and sketch-books ? and how James 
was sent off for a car, of which description of vehicle one 
of us averred there were hundreds to be hired at every 
corner — and how James was gone a mortal time — and 
how we called him all sorts of names, " loitering-," and 
" stupid," and " blind," and what not — and how he came 
back at last looking as innocent as a dove, and puffing- 
like a grampus — and how it turned out that there were 
but two cars in the whole place, and that by superhuman 
exertions he had at last secured one of them — and how 
we flew down stairs, and found it at the door — and how 
it was a very odd-looking vehicle, mounted up like a tub 
upon stilts ! — and how it cocked up so behind, we could 
hardly scramble in — and how, when we were in, we looked 
at the horse and did not like him, and then at one another 
and did not like each other's looks — and how we went off 
at last, bang ! with such a jerk, as jerked us altogether in 
a bunch, with our eight hands up in the middle, like four 
pigeons in a pie — and how we tore down the street like 
fury, and whisked round the corner like a whirlwind — 
and how the beast of a horse pranced and snorted like a 
griffin — and how one of us vowed he was a griffin and 
no mortal horse — and how another of us was partly of 
the same opinion — and how we all hated the irregularity 
of his proceedings, and the jolting, and swinging, and 
bumping of the tub — and how at last we all attacked the 
driver, and insisted on getting out — and how we all 
blessed our stars on once more touching terra firma—* 



60 CHURCHYARDS. 

and how we found out that we had narrowly escaped the 
fate of Mazeppa, having- actually been tied on to the tail 
of a wild horse, whose proprietor had allotted to us the 
honour of breaking his spirit, or our own necks. 

Out of evil often good proceedeth— our proud spirits 
were humbled. We had enough of prancing steeds and 
jumping chariots — we had tasted of exaltation, and were 
satisfied — we had been set up aloft, and were glad to 
come down again — so, with meek minds and amiable 
condescension, we intrusted ourselves, deux a deux, to a 
couple of donkey carts, and off we were once more ! — 
ours, you know, Lilias, leading the way ! And don't you 
remember — can you ever forget — that blear-eyed goblin 
that attended us as a running footman, shuffling along 
by the side of his donkey, and regaling us, chemin faisant, 
with his amiable conversation ? One of his eyes, you 
know — the right — with its little rusty tuft of eyebrow, 
had wandered half-way up into his forehead ; the other, 
leaving a long, black, shaggy eyebrow in its natural place, 
had dropped downhill — languishiy half-closed — towards 
the left corner of his mouth, which lovingly twitched 
upwards to meet it half-way ; and his nose was puckered 
down all on one side into the cheek by a great red and 
purple seam ; and he was all over seamed and speckled 
with black, red, and purple — for the poor wretch had 
evidently been blown up and half-roasted some time or 
other, though never the worse for it when we had the 
first happiness of beholding him, excepting in the afore- 
mentioned trifling disarrangement of physiognomy, at 
which, for my part, I was so far from conceiving any 
manner of disgust, that I thought the countenance had 
more than gained in character and expression — which is 
every thing, you know, — what it had lost in the trifling 
point, regularity of features. There was something infi- 



CHAPTER VI. 61 

nitely piquant — something inexpressibly wild and pic- 
turesque (quite Salvatorish) in the tout ensemble ! The 
whole face had undergone a face-quake ; and sparks of 
the volcanic flame were yet visible in the one little ferret 
eye, that gleamed in his forehead like a live coal as he 
ran on beside us, now vehemently exciting his donkey to 
super-donkeyish exertions — now declaiming to us, with 
all the fervour of a dilettante guide, on views, antiquities, 
curiosities, fossils, minerals, snail-shells, and Roman 
pavements. He was a jewel of a guide ! — " take him for 
all in all, we shall not look upon his like again !" 

Well, you remember we alighted — weighted, as an old 
lady of my acquaintance used to say — at the entrance of 
the village ; and there again debate ensued as to where 
we should first shape our course. There was the church 
— a line old church ! — to be seen, and perhaps sketched. 
There was a famous grotto, of which the Guide-book told 
wonders ; and lastly, there was, within a pretty walk of 
the church, an old, old house, the oldest in the county, 
a manor-house, the property of one of the most ancient 
families in the kingdom — the family of the De la Veres. 
That venerable mansion was, I believe, the greatest 
attraction to us all ; but, like dainty children, we set it 
aside for bonne bouche, and decided to begin with the 
grotto. Strange misgivings crept over us, when we were 
directed through the village street to the door of a mean- 
looking house, and told that was the entrance to " the 
cool cavern, the mysterious grot !" and when, instead of 
a nymph, a wood or water nymph — an Oread, a Dryad, 
or a Hamadryad — there came forth to greet, and intro- 
duce us to the romantic solitude, an old, frightful, painted 
hag, with her elf-locks bristling out in papers, like por- 
cupine quills, from under the frills and flappets of a high 
French cap, and in her ears (prodigious ears they were !) 



62 CHURCHYARDS. 

two monstrous gold rings, that looked like the handles of 
a copper tea-urn. 

We shrank back at sight of this gorgon ; but she 
strutted towards us with her arras a-kimbo, and there was 
a sinister determination in the tone in which she said to 
us, " Walk in, ladies, and see the grotto." She looked 
determined that we should see it, and we looked at her 
claws and her fierce eyes, and felt she was not a person 
to be affronted ; so, as our evil stars had led us to the 
entrance of her den, we submitted to fate, and followed the 
sylvan goddess — followed her through a dark, dirty, nar- 
row passage, out at a little mean door, into an enclosed 
back-yard, about forty feet square, divided into four com- 
partments, containing a parterre, a wilderness, a castle, 
and the grotto I — and over the entrance to this Elysium 
was flung a wooden arch, painted sky-blue, whereon it 
was notified, in gold letters, that " the whole was to be 
seen for the inconsiderable sum of sixpence a-head ; " 
moreover, that " tea and rolls, and all other refresh- 
ments, were furnished on equally reasonable terms." 

Oh ye gods ! — so we poor innocents had been betrayed 
into a sixpenny tea-garden ! — and, sure enough, there, 
just opposite to us, perched upon a grass mound, in the 
— the donjon-keep of the castle I suppose, sat six merry- 
mortals, in a state of earthly beatitude, their faces shin- 
ing in the red-hot evening sun like fresh-varnished ver- 
milion coach-panels, swilling tea and negus, and stuffing 
down hot rolls, bread and butter, and cold ham, with 
most romantic fervour. We paid our sixpences, and 
made our retreat as quietly and civilly as possible ; ha- 
ving first, to pacify our conductress, poked our noses into 
the dirty coal-hole, stuck with bits of glass, oyster and 
periwinkle-shells, which she called " The Grotto;" and 
youy my dear Lilias, had the complaisance to mount up 



CHAPTER VI. 63 

to the battlements of the castle, (where, by-the-by, you 
looked like sister Anne in Bluebeard,) in compliance with 
the g-orgon's importunities. To you, therefore, we were in- 
debted for her gracious patronage, when, on inquiring-, 
as we left the enchanted garden, whether strangers were 
allowed to see Halliburn-house, she replied, with a con- 
sequential toss of her head, that she was well known 
there, and that if we applied to the butler in the name of 
" Madam Simpson of the Grotto," we might be sure of 
immediate admittance. So much for the first of our 
three lions ; and, truly, we had obtained sixpennyworth 
for our sixpence, in the patronage of " Madam Simpson 
of the Grotto." 

Five minutes' walk brought us to the next object in 
our itinerary, and here no shock awaited us. No human 
gorgon, no officious guide, no Madam Simpson, to fling- 
open the low white wicket, and cry, " Walk in, ladies, 
for sixpence a-head." 

Sole guardians of the gate, two fine old maples arched 
over it their interwoven boughs ; and many others, and 
several majestic elms, were grouped together, or stood 
singly, in and about the churchyard. A few cottages^ 
with pretty neat gardens, were scattered around ; and, at 
the further end of abroad smooth grass-plat, parallel with 
the churchyard, and separated from it only by a low stone 
wall, stood the rectory, a long, low, irregularly-shaped 
building of common brick, and with a tiled roof, but 
made picturesque by the rich and mellow colouring- of 
age, and by the porches, pent-houses, and buttresses, the 
additions of many successive incumbents, and by a noble 
old vine that covered the entire front, a great part of the 
long sloping roof, and had even been trained round one 
of the gables, up to the yery top of a high stack of clus- 
tered chimneys. 



64 CHURCHYARDS. 

Behind the church and rectory appeared an undulating 
sea of foliage, ancient oak and beech, with here and there 
a graceful feathery birch glancing and shivering in the 
sun, like silvery froth above the darker waves; and beneath 
those venerable trees, winded away a broad, shady, park- 
like road, to which a gate opened from the lane that ran 
along behind the church and rectory. That road was the 
more private approach to Halliburn House, the ancient 
mansion of the De la Veres ; and every object in the sur- 
rounding scene was, in one way or other, associated with 
the past or present circumstances of that venerable race. 
The whole village had, in former times, been a fief of their 
extensive lordship, and great part of it was still in their pos- 
session. The living was in their gift, and had always been 
held by a younger son of their house, till the branches began 
to fail about the old family-tree. The church had been 
erected by their pious progenitors ; and many succeeding 
De la Veres had beautified andenlargedit, and added gallery 
and organ-loft, and adorned the chancel with carved and 
gilded work, and its long window with painted glass, 
emblazoned with the twelve apostles, and with the family 
escutcheon ; and had enriched its altar with pix and 
chalice of massy embossed silver, and with fine damask 
napery, and with high branched candlesticks of silver gilt, 
and with scarlet cushions and hassocks, bordered with 
broad gold-lace, and sumptuously fringed and tasselled 
with the same. And these pious benefactions of theirs, 
and their good deeds that they did, and the ring of bells 
that they gave, and the gilt weathercock that they caused 
to be set up on the church-steeple, and the new face 
wherewith they did repair and beautify the old clock that 
was therein, and the marble font that they presented, and 
the alms-houses that they built, and the school that they 
endowed — are not all these things recorded, in goodly 



CHAPTER VI. 65 

golden capitals, on divers tablets, conspicuously affixed in 
sundry and several places in the said church — to wit, 
over the great door, and in the centre of the organ-loft, 
and in five several compartments along the paneling of 
the long north gallery ; and to each and every one of 
those honourable memorials, are not the names of the 
churchwardens of the time being, duly and reverently 
appended ? 

And on the left, as you go up the chancel, immedi- 
ately beside the gilded rails of the altar, is the large, 
square, commodious pew of the De la Veres, to which 
you ascend by two steps ; and its floor is covered with 
what hath been a rich, bright Turkey ^carpet, and the da- 
mask with which it is lined and cushioned, was once 
resplendent crimson, now faded to tawny orange, and 
sorely perforated by the devouring moth. And all the 
Testaments, Prayer-books, and Hymn-books lying on 
the carved oak reading-shelves, are bound in vellum, em- 
blazoned with the arms of the De la Veres, and clasped, 
or have been once, with brazen or silver clasps. But 
some of them have bulged out of all bookish shape, and 
the fine parchment covers have shrunk up like sear and 
shrivelled leaves. That small thick Prayer-book, in par- 
ticular, that was once so splendidly emblazoned — one 
clasp still hangs, by half a hinge, on one remaining cover 
— the other is quite gone from the curled and tattered 
leaves. And see ! on that blank leaf before the title- 
page, is some pale discoloured writing. First, in a fine 
delicate Italian hand, comes the name of 



" Agnes de la Vere — her "book, 
Y« gifte of her Hond Mother, 
Dame Eleanor de la Vere, 
June ye 20*6, 1614." 



66 CHURCHYARDS. 

And lower down, on the same page, is again written, in 
larger and more antique characters — 

" Mye deare Childe dyed 

june ye 26the, 1614, 

in ye 19the yeare of her age. — 

' Ye Lord gave and y e Lord taketh awaye. 

Bless d be ye name of y e Lord !' " 

Those words have been blotted as they were written, but 
not alone by the unsteady hand of the writer. 

The book falls open at the Psalms. — See ! at the 
xxth morning of the month — and there ! there ! — in 
that very place, almost incorporated by age into the very 
substance of the paper, are a few stiff, shrunken rose- 
leaves I They fell, doubtless, from the bosom of that 
young Agnes, on that happy birthday ; and before those 
leaves were withered, the human flower had dropped into 
the dust ! And now what matters it, or to whom, that 
the lovely and the loved was taken hence so early ? 

And all the chancel, and many other parts of the 
church, are covered with hatchments and monumental 
tablets of the De la Veres. Of the former, some so faded 
and blurred by age and damp, that the proud bend of the 
milkwhite plume, towering from its coroneted crest, is 
scarce distinguishable from the skull that grins beneath, 
in the centr.e of its half-obliterated " Resurgam." — On the 
right of the altar, just opposite the family pew, is a railed- 
in space, containing two monuments. One of great 
antiquity ; the other very ancient also, but of a much 
later age. Both are altar-tombs. The first — once deeply 
and richly wrought with curious carved work — is worn 
away (all its acute angles, and salient points, and bold 
projections, flattened and rounded off) to a mere oblong 
stone, one side of which has sunk deep into the pavement 
of the church. Two figures, rudely sculptured, are ex- 



CHAPTER VI. 67 

tended on it. One of a knight in armour — (see ! that 
mailed hand is almost perfect,) and of a lady, whose 
square headgear, descending in straight folds-.on either 
side the face, is still distinguishable, though the face 
itself has long been worn away to a flat polished surface — 
just slightly indented at the place the mouth once occu- 
pied. The upper part of the knight's high Roman nose 
still projects from his demolished visage ; and one can 
still trace the prominent cheek-bones and the bold mar- 
tial brow — 

" Outstretch' d together are express'd 

He and my ladye fair, 
With hands uplifted on the hreast, 

In attitude of prayer : 
Long-visaged — clad in armour, he — 
With ruffled arm and bodice, she." 

Their heads repose on a tasselled cushion, and a grey- 
hound couches at their feet — and on the sides of the tomb 

is it really impossible to make out any part of that 

long inscription? Surely some words are yet legible 

here and there — some letters at least. See ! that great R is 
plain — and the next letter, i — and all the following ones 
may be spelled out with a little patience — and, lo ! the name 
that was doubtless consigned to immortality — ." Sir Richard 
De la Vere." And then ! — lower down, on that third line, 
the word — " Plan-tagenet." And then again, " K& e . 
E — w — ," Edward, surely — and those figures must have 
designated him Third of the name, for immediately after, 
" Cressy " is plainly discernible. And on the shield — 
what countless quarterings have been here ! One may 
trace the compartments, but no more ; and the rich 
mantle ! and the barred helmet ! and then — oh, yes — 
surmounting the helmet, there are the ducal coronet, and 
the fine ostrich plumes, the noble achievement of the De 



68 CHURCHYARDS. 

la Veres, won by that grim knight upon the plain of 
Cressy — " Requiescat in pace " — Sir Richard de la Vere ! 

And on this other tomb are also extended two figures, 
male and female — and theirs is the fashion of a later age. 
There is the slashed vest, and the bulky padded shoulders 
arid chest, and the trunk hose, and long pointed shoes, 
with large rosettes, of Elizabeth's or James's era. And 
the small ruff and peaked beard of the male figure, and 
the chin, and the great thumb ring — all perfect. And the 
lady's little jewelled skullcap, and monstrous ruff, and 
hour-glass shape, and the multitudinous plaits of her 
nether garments. And on that compartment of the 
tomb, the shield, with the proud bearings, is visible 
enough. It hath been emblazoned in colours proper, and 
patches of gules and azure yet cling to the groundwork, 
and that griffin's claw is still sheathed or. — And the sur- 
rounding inscriptions are all legible. In the compart- 
ments opposite, are the names of " Reginald de la Vere," 
and " Dame Eleanor, his wife, the only daughter and 
heiress of Sir Marmaduke Hepburn." And in the next, 
and next, and yet another, of three " fair sonnes," who 
preceded their parents to the grave ; and last, (here is no 
vacant space,) of " Agnes de la Vere, their onlye daugh- 
ter." Ah ! yes — the same. See there the end of all 
things ! Illustrious descent — heroic deeds — worldly pro- 
sperity — parental hopes— strength, youth, and beauty ! 
— " Sic transit gloria mundi." 

Look ! in that dark corner of the chancel, at the ter- 
mination of that narrow passage running along from the 
communion-table behind the two monuments, is a low 
iron door, just visible from the family pew. More than 
half a century hath passed away since that door hath 
grated on its rusty hinges; but before that period, fre- 
quently were its heavy bars removed, and down the 



CHAPTER VI. 69 

narrow stair to which it opens, generation after genera- 
tion of the De la Veres descended to their " dark house 
of kindred dead," till no space remained unoccupied in 
those silent chambers. And it should seem that the ex- 
tinction of the ancient race drew near, from the time that 
their sepulchral home, having- received the apportioned 
number for whom its rest was prepared, closed its inex- 
orable doors against their posterity. Certain it is, that 
from about this time the name has been gradually per- 
ishing away from among the rolls of the living, till it 
rested at last with three persons only, the son and two 
daughters of the tenth Reginald. 

That son was named after his martial ancestor, but 
the last Richard De la Vere lived and died a man of 
peace, a widower, and childless ; for the wife of his youth- 
ful love had been taken from him in the first year of their 
union ; and from the time of her death, withdrawing from 
the world and from public life, and well nigh from all 
neighbourly intercourse, he had lived entirely at the old 
family mansion with his two unmarried sisters, whose 
veneration for the last male survivor of their ancient 
race, as well as their strong affection for him, suffered 
them not to murmur, even in thought, at the life of total 
seclusion, which, in all probability, condemned them to 
one of celibacy. So the squire and his two faithful com- 
panions lived on together a long life of tranquil monotony, 
a vegetative dream-like existence, so unruffled by the 
usual accidents of " chance and change," that their very 
minds became stagnant, incapable of reflecting exterior 
objects, and insensible to the noiseless wafting of Time's 
pinions, that swept by so gently. But those quiet waters 
brooded on their own depths — on " the long-faded glories 
they covered ; " and perhaps the pride of ancestry, and 
the feeling of hereditary consequence, were never more 



70 CHURCHYARDS. 

powerful than in the hearts of those three secluded per- 
sons, whose existence was scarcely remembered beyond 
the precincts of their own domain ; whose views, and 
cares, and interests, had long been circumscribed by its 
narrow limits, and with whom the very name itself, the 
long- transmitted name,would so soon descend into the dust 
and be extinct for ever. Barring- this human failing, and 
perhaps also the unsocial retiredness of their general 
habits, which had grown on them imperceptibly, partly 
from natural shyness, heightened by indulgence into 
morbid feeling, and partly from the altered circumstances 
of the family, which they shrank from exposing to the 
vulgar eye — barring such human failings, these last de- 
scendants of the De la Veres were kind, and good, and 
pious people, beloved in their household and amongst 
their tenantry, and never named but respectfully, (when 
named at all,) even by the neighbouring gentry, with 
whom they had long ceased to keep up any visiting in- 
tercourse beyond the rare occurrence of a morning call. 
So years stole on, till age had palsied the firm step of the 
squire, and silvered the bright locks of the once-bloom- 
ing sisters. 

Then was the last branch shaken off the old sapless 
tree. Three withered leaves yet hung upon it, to be 
succeeded by no after vegetation. First dropped the bro- 
ther ; and soon after the youngest of the venerable sis-, 
ters ; and then one poor, infirm, solitary female, the last 
of her race, was left alone in the desolate habitation of 
the once flourishing De la Veres. But if you would 
know more of that antique mansion, and of its aged 
mistress and her immediate predecessors, you must come 
outside the church, for there are their sepulchres. There, 
since the closing up of the family vault, have the later 
De la Veres made their beds in the dust, though without 



CHAPTER VI. 71 

the walls of the church, yet as near as might be to its 
subterranean chambers, and to the ashes of their kindred 
dead. These things that I have spoken of — those tombs 
and those hatchments, and the family pew, and the low 
iron door — are they not to be seen, even unto this day, 
in the ancient church of Halliburn ? — you know, dear 
Lilias ! they so engrossed our attention on our first visit 
to the same, that time remained not that evening for our 
purposed survey of the old family mansion. Besides, 
the churchyard was yet to be conned over, and the sun 
was already descending behind the distant hills. So 
taking our outward survey of the venerable church, and 
a slight pencil sketch, almost as rapidly executed, we 
turned our faces homeward, reserving for another evening 
the further prosecution of our antiquarian researches* 



72 CHURCHYARDS. 



CHAPTER VII. 

The third evening from our first visit to Halliburn 
church, found us re-assembled near the venerable struc- 
ture, preparing to complete our survey of its beautiful 
churchyard, and afterwards to prosecute our further 
scheme of visiting- the ancient mansion-house of the De 
la Veres. The burial-ground was beautifully situated, 
and finely shaded by majestic trees. Its field of graves, 
and the intersecting paths, were in that state of neat and 
decent order which should ever characterize the resting- 
place of the dead ; but it contained no object of particular 
interest, save that enclosed space adjoining the church to 
which I alluded in my last chapter. That outer court of 
death ! That supplement to the sepulchre of the De la 
Veres ! It was a singular-looking burial-place ! — the 
most forlorn I ever looked upon. The more so, for being 
the only neglected spot in the whole churchyard — the 
only one upon which the grass was allowed to shoot up 
in rank luxuriance, intermingled with tall tufts of nettles 
and mallows ; and one felt sad looking on those forsaken 
graves, as if the poor sleepers beneath them were unkind- 
ly excluded from the vaulted chambers within, the dark 
asylum of their kindred dead. It was a long strip of 
ground, close under, and running parallel to, the chancel 
wall ; a projection of the building bounding it at one end, 
while the other and the outer side was parted off from the 
rest of the churchyard by a high iron railing. Within 
that barrier was arranged a single row of graves — eight, 
I think, in number — mere turfen hillocks, undistinguish- 



CHAPTER VII. 73 

ed by tomb or headstone, or memorial of any kind, save 
one, a small, mean, mural tablet of the commonest stone, 
affixed in that part of the church wall immediately over 
the eighth, and apparently the last heaped grave. But, 
in that poor memorial, the pride of illustrious ancestry, 
the last sparks of human vanity, were yet legible. The 
form was that of an armorial shield, though containing 
only a plain and simply worded inscription ; but all the 
ingenuity of the rude sculptor had been exercised in 
carving out the sides of that coarse stone into the sem- 
blance of a mantle ; and it was just discernible, after some 
little patient investigation, that the five uncouth lumps, 
issuing out of a sort of basket on the top, were designed 
to represent an ostrich plume, surmounting a ducal coro- 
net. And that rude mockery of the family crest had 
been there affixed in contempt of heraldic fitness. The 
name beneath was that of a female, and the inscription 
ran simply — 

" To the memory of 

Gertrude de la Vere, 

The second daughter of Reginald and 

Elizabeth de la Vere, 

Who departed this life, May the 27th, 1820, 

Aged 79 years." 

What a striking contrast suggested itself between that 
crumbling discoloured stone, " with shapeless sculpture 
decked," and coarsely engraven with that simple obituary, 
and the polished marbles, the costly gilding, the " cun- 
ning carved work," the elaborate inscriptions, wherewith 
the interior of the church was emblazoned, in memory of 
the earlier De la Veres. Not one forgotten there — not 
one unrecorded, save the poor sleeper beneath that eighth 
grave ; for, of those who tenanted the remaining seven 
hillocks, each had his own memorial within, arranged in 
due succession with those of his progenitors. It is true, 



74 CHURCHYARDS. 

that a wide disparity of sepulchral magnificence was 
apparent betwixt those later monuments and the proud 
tombs of the long-departed. A marble tablet, with a 
simple relievo — an urn, a cypress branch, or a funeral 
wreath — but on each the family achievement. Such 
were the recently-erected monuments, and each in suc- 
cession had abated a little and a little of costly decoration, 
till the last (that of the late Squire) was a plain square 
tablet of white marble, on a black ground, bearing the 
inscription, and underneath the arms of the deceased, 
not sculptured, but emblazoned in colours proper, on a 
very small shield slightly elevated. But that plain me- 
morial was of marble, and neatly executed, and had been 
respectfully added, " in order due," to the long line of 
family records. Wherefore, then, had the name of that 
poor female, that solitary outcast, no place amongst those 
of her ancestors and near kindred ? Were there none left 
to honour the memory of the dead ! to take order for the 
last respectful observances to the latest De la Vere ? One 
sole survivor, the elder sister, had closed the eyes of that 
last being in whose veins ran the same stream that feebly 
circulated through her own. And she had taken order 
(as far as her enfeebled powers permitted) that all due 
observances should be respectfully attended to, and she 
had bethought her— confusedly, indeed, but with tena- 
cious adherence to ancient family custom — that " some- 
thing should be done" — " something should be ordered" 
— some tomb, some monument to the memory of the 
deceased. And thereupon the village stone-mason was 
called in and consulted ; but the poor lady rambled 
strangely in her directions, so that, at last, the rustic 
sculptor was left almost unrestricted to the guidance of 
his own taste and judgment, except on one point to which 
Mrs Grace steadily adhered, recurring to it as to a point 



CHAPTER VII. 75 

d'appui, whenever her poor head lost itself in a labyrinth 
of perplexities. " The family crest — the coronet — the 
ostrich plume " — that was to be properly conspicuous. 
" Was not her poor dear sister a De la Vere ? Almost 
the last — but for herself — no matter ! — only — they were 
to ,be sure to leave room enough for her name under her 
sister's ; and perhaps some one — her old steward or the 
minister — would see that it was engraven there." 

Thus commissioned, the village artist went proudly to 
work, and at last finished off, to his own entire satisfac- 
tion, the mural tablet we have seen affixed over the grave 
of Mrs Gertrude De la Vere. The inscription had been 
arranged in that concise and simple form by the rector, 
who, having been consulted on the subject by the aged 
lady, had at last prevailed over her bewildered preconcep- 
tion that it should be an elaborate composition — " in 
Latin, perhaps — something alluding to their illustrious 
ancestors — to Sir Richard De la Vere, and the battle of 
Cressy." But the minister was a learned man, and she 
was content to leave it to him ; only, by her express 
desire, the tablet was affixed without the church, over 
the grave of the departed. Her motives for this request 
were never very clearly comprehended ; only something 
she hinted — very distantly, for it was a tender subject — 
of the altered circumstances of the family — that a poor 
stone was all that could be afforded to the memory of its 
latest descendants ; and " that would look poorly/' she 
muttered to herself in a low under tone, " amongst all 
those grand marbles in the chancel." 

It was true that the worldly prosperity of the De la 
Veres had been on the decline for many successive gene- 
rations ; and, on the decease of the last male survivor, 
the aged sisters, though for the lives of both left in pos- 
session of the family mansion and its immediate depend- 



76 CHURCHYARDS. 

encies, had found themselves straitened in the means of 
continuing the establishment on its footing 1 of ancient 
respectability. But the hearts of both clung to the things, 
and the customs, and the fashions, which they had been ha- 
bituated to from their earliest recollection, and they sacri- 
ficed many private comforts and indulgences to the par- 
donable weakness of keeping up every thing, as nearly as 
possible, in the same style as during the lifetime of their 
honoured parents, and of their late dear brother. 

So, in outward appearance, little change was percep- 
tible ; and while the sisters were spared to each other, 
the stronger mind of the younger sustained and excited 
to beneficial exertions the more timid and desponding 
spirit of the elder sister. But when the latter was left 
utterly desolate, then indeed the burdens of care, of age, 
and infirmity, fell heavily upon her ; and a terror of 
impending poverty (the phantom of a weak and depressed 
spirit, and distempered imagination) aggravated the real 
evils of her forlorn condition. Under the influence of 
these feelings, she had given her directions respecting 
that singular tablet consecrated to the memory of Mrs 
Gertrude De la Vere. 

They had been, as we have seen, scrupulously attend- 
ed to, and beneath her sister's name sufficient space to 
receive her own had been carefully left vacant. And 
beside her sister's grave, there was room enough for one 
more hillock — for one more only — to fill up the long strip 
of ground appropriated to the late De la Veres. A hun- 
dred years before, that space had been railed in from the 
common resting-place of the vulgar dead ; but what nice 
calculator had then computed so exactly how many feet 
of earth would suffice to include (each in his common 
cell) the remnant of the ancient race ? 

The broad disc of the setting sun was yet high in the 



CHAPTER VII. 77 

golden chambers of the west, when we turned from the 
cemetery of the De la Veres to pursue our walk towards 
their ancient mansion-house. Our road lay, as described, 
through those venerable woods, some of whose noble 
oaks appeared coeval with the earlier generations of the 
family ; and many of them, in their various stages of 
decay, were strikingly typical of its long- decline and 
approaching extinction. One in particular arrested our 
attention. Almost the last of the grove, and now, in- 
deed, considerably in advance of it, from the decay or 
removal of intermediate timber, it stood singly on the 
open grass land immediately approximating to the man- 
sion. It had been a superb tree, the- monarch of the 
grove ! Its bole, rugged and rifted, and of immense 
circumference, stood up so proudly steadfast, as if the 
enormous roots, spreading for many yards around, and 
heaving through the turf in twisted nakedness, and knots, 
and curious fretwork, had grappled with the very centre 
of the earth, and would maintain their hold, till shaken 
thence by nature's last convulsions. But the vast trunk 
was hollow at the core — hollowed out into a spacious 
grotto, where the sheep took shelter, and the mare, with 
her young colt beside her, lay down in the heat of the 
day. And still the mere shell, with its tough coating of 
rough mossy bark, was of strength sufficient to bear up 
the burden of the forks into which the tree branched off 
from its centre. Three noble limbs had they been in the 
days of their vigorous maturity, overspreading the earth, 
for many roods around, with the broad shadow of their 
leafy branches ; but now despoiled of those, the gigantic 
arms stretched out their unsheltered nakedness in the 
stern grandeur of decaying greatness. Two of these 
forks were completely dead. From one of them the bark 
had dropped away, leaving it exposed in skeleton white- 



78 CHURCHYARDS. 

ness. The third showed signs of feebly lingering life — . 
a mossy spray or two, on which a few leaves yet hung, 
but they were pale and sickly, and ready to fall at the 
first autumnal blast. The road wound along close under 
the trunk of that old tree. A few yards further, and we 
stood before the gateway of Halliburn House. 

I never beheld a scene of more quiet cheerfulness than 
that before us — yes, of cheerful quiet — for however the 
observant eye might trace indications of decay and change, 
there was none of neglect and desolation — no appearance 
of ruin or dilapidation about the buildings, or of slovenly 
disorder in the homestead. It is true, the broad gra- 
velled road of approach was no longer of that bright 
colour which tells of frequent renewal, and there were no 
tracks of carriage wheels, except of such as had passed 
and repassed for agricultural purposes ; but it was hard 
and smooth, and neatly edged and weeded, and nothing 
could exceed the fine order, and rich verdure, of the pas- 
tures through which it wound. The people were engaged 
in hay-making that very evening, and the waggons were 
plying to and fro before the old gateway — to and fro, 
from the adjoining open rick-yard, within which we had 
a glimpse of objects strangely incongruous. 

The coach-house and stables opened into the same 
area, surrounded on the other sides by barns, granaries, 
and cattle-stalls ; but the line of demarcation was no 
longer so evident between the two departments, as it 
doubtless had been in the more flourishing days of the 
establishment. One large building had fallen entirely 
into decay, and, to supply the want of it, others had been 
converted to purposes wide of those for which they were 
originally designed. Part of the large barn was meta- 
morphosed into a cart-shed, and a rough, clumsy, broad- 
wheeled dung-cart was stowed away in the capacious 



CHAPTER VII. 79 

coach-house — ( Oh, spirits of the departed De la Veres !) 
— cheek by jowl with the old family coach ! that inde- 
scribable vehicle ! The coach-house doors stood wide 
open, and we took a full survey of it. It was in shape 
like those lackered tin toys, (themselves, I believe, be- 
come unfashionable now,) which were the delight of 
children when I was a child — like the coaches in old 
prints and pictures, representing- the setting forth of 
Louis le Grand and his Court, to take the air in the 
neighbourhood of Versailles. It was low, and broad, and 
deep, and carved and gilded, and all windows in the upper 
panels. The lower, every one emblazoned with the 
family arms ; the ostrich plume spreading so extrava- 
gantly, as if the whole tail of an ostrich must have gone 
to the composition of each. 

Years had elapsed since that venerable relic had moved 
from its resting-place, except when irreverently drawn 
forward or aside., to make way for the vulgar associates, 
thrust into the space beside it once occupied by a tower- 
ing phaeton and a stately chariot — varnish there was none 
remaining on its blistered and dusty panels ; a heap of 
oat-straw had fallen down from the raftered ceiling on its 
dishonoured top, and a parcel of clucking hens were peck- 
ing about and perching on its wheels and springs ; while 
at one side window, whence in its days of glory looked 
forth so many fair and noble faces, in awful majesty of 
plume and periwig, a dunghill cock had taken his bold 
station, and there he stood clapping his wings, and crow- ' 
ing as it were in conscious exultation. The stable doors 
were also open, but no pampered steeds were visible in 
the long range of stalls ; two of them were converted 
into calf-pens ; a sick cow was tethered in a third, and 
by the clumsy rusty collars, and pieces of coarse harness 
hanging about on the others, they were apparently occu- 



80 CHURCHYARDS. 

pied by the farm-horses ; one of these, indeed, an old 
blind mare, suffering- from some disease in its legs, which 
were swathed and bandaged up, was littered in a side stall, 
over which, on a painted board above the manger, the 
name of " Highflier," was still legible. In another, 
(one of those converted into calf-pens,) we read that of 
44 Cressy." A great grey cat sat snugly trussed up on 
the broad ledge of one of the stall partitions ; a mouser, 
of such venerable aspect, as if her early days had been 
contemporaneous with the prime of Highflier and Cressy. 
Invited by the open gates, and by the absence of the 
people, we took a brief survey of all these things, and 
then returned to the great gateway, from which we had 
stepped aside for a moment. 

The mansion-house, comprising its several court-yards, 
offices, and out-buildings, occupied altogether a large 
square, surrounded by a stone wall, in some places scarcely 
breast-high, in others, (as along the principal front,) suffi- 
ciently elevated to afford a lofty broad archway, through 
which we passed into the first court, a square grass plat 
enclosed on every side by the same grey wall, over which 
the ivy crept with its tenacious verdure, knotting itself 
into a leafy mass over the first archway. The second, 
to which we passed on over a broad stone pavement, 
dividing the grass plat, was far otherwise surmounted. 
There, conspicuous in the centre, was the family achieve- 
ment, deeply and richly carved, and still almost uninjured 
by Time's " effacing fingers." It had evidently been 
cleared even of late from the encroaching ivy ; but I 
smiled to perceive, that one idle tendril, insinuating itself 
round the border of the shield and through the open 
fretwork of the coronet, had crept up to the very top of 
the proud nodding plume, and flaunted, as if triumphantly, 
above its loftiest bend. Passing under that second arch, 



CHArTER VII. 81 

we found ourselves in a second court, of the same dimen- 
sions, and nearly similar to the first, only that we now 
fronted the doorway of the mansion, and its principal bay 
windows. In one corner too, adjoining- the house, arose 
a slender turret, within an arched hollow of which a great 
bell was visible, and above appeared the face of an old 
clock. In the opposite angle of the square, flourished a 
large white rose-tree, which had been trained far along- 
the side wall of the court, and also against the house itself 
up to the very parapet. The elegant trailer was now 
covered with its pale blossoms, those and the light green 
leaves beautifully harmonizing with the quiet colouring 
of the old stone wall, and the general tone of chastened 
repose characterizing the whole — a repose unbroken, 
though brightened into mellow richness, by the amber 
hue of sunset, reflected on the long low front of the an- 
cient dwelling, tinting its grey walls with a soft warm 
cream colour, gilding the projecting stonework of the rich 
bay windows, the dentated edges of the parapet, and the 
angles and pinnacles of the little turret. The grass plats 
were thrown into deep shadow by the surrounding wall, 
except that one broad sunbeam, stealing in under the 
archway, and along the paved walk, brightened its soft 
turf edges into two lines of emerald velvet, and gleaming 
onwards, penetrated through the open door far intb the 
interior of the mansion. There was no stir of life — no 
sound audible, except the ticking of the old turret clock, 
and the low, broken, tender cooing of a few tame pigeons, 
nestling here and there on the walls and parapet, or pat- 
tering about the grass plats and pavements with their 
pretty rose-coloured feet, their demure looks, and soft, 
sleek, quaker plumage. Close beside the house-door, 
basking in the warm sunshine, lay a fine old hound — 
Sagacity itself depicted in its grave, mild countenance, 

F 



82 CHURCHYARDS. 

its close hung- ears, and long dewlaps, and in the medita- 
tive expression of its half- closed eyes. He lay there as 
motionless as his stone prototype, stretched out at the 
feet of grim Sir Richard, in Halliburn Church, and it was 
rather an evidence of the perfect security of that quiet 
dwelling and its venerable inmates, than of faithless 
guardianship in the old household Argus, that he showed 
no signs of hostility at our approach, nor otherwise noticed 
us than by half raising himself, with a look of courteous 
invitation, and wagging his tail, when, on the encourage- 
ment of that dumb welcome, we ventured near enough 
to pat his sleek, old head. 

We looked about us — at the upper and lower windows 
— and through the open doorway, into a broad, low, 
vaulted stone passage, or vestibule, terminating in the 
middle of the house in another of similar construction, 
intersecting it at right angles. No living soul was visible. 
We stepped over the threshold to reach the knocker of 
the heavy door, flung back against the inner wall. It 
was a huge massy door of oak planks laid obliquely, and 
almost blackened by age, studded all over with great iron 
knobs, and further strengthened by bars and enormous 
hinges of the same. The knocker was an uncouthly- 
fashioned lump of iron, and fell from our hand with a 
dead sullen sound, when, after a moment's hesitation, 
(for it seemed almost sacrilegious to disturb that peaceful 
silence,) we ventured to strike two strokes on the old 
door. Not even an echo replied to our summons — no, 
nor to a second, nor a third appeal. 

No bell was visible, save that in the clock-turret, and 
there appeared no visible means of pulling, what never- 
theless was probably the usual announcement of visiters. 

Loth were we to relinquish our hope of being admitted 
to see the interior of the house ; and, after a moment's 



CHAPTER VII. 83 

consultation, two of us — the two boldest of our party — 
agreed to steal in, down that inviting- passage, in quest of 
its living inmates, if such there were, while the other two 
more discreetly re-trode their way to the outer demesne, 
to ask information of the haymakers. You and I, Lilias, 
were the daring twain who went in to spy out the land — 
I foremost in the bold intrusion, but so cowardly withal, 
that I stole along- as motionless as the yellow sunbeam 
that gleamed onward before us, like a golden clue, quite 
to the extremity of the first broad passage, and across the 
second, even to the opposite wall, against which it flashed 
upward with a paler ray, melting- gradually into the na- 
tural colour of the grey stone, and the deep shadows of 
the vaulted roof. Arrived at the termination of that first 
passage, the second presented to our view, at one end, the 
perspective of a half-closed door, at the other, a third 
intersecting vaulted way, through which again the cheer- 
ful sunshine streamed, from some unseen inlet, across the 
darkness of the central passage. My companion, hesitat- 
ing to proceed further, slowly retreated towards the outer 
door, while I, with true female perseverance, looked, and 
longed, and lingered, yet, " let I dare not, wait upon I 
would, like the poor cat i' th' adage." And, lo ! while I 
stood there, that very animal, a fine, large, demure-looking 
tortoise-shell, came stealing into sight, just in the stream 
of light which darted down the further passage. Motion- 
less as I stood, the keen-eyed prowler caught a glimpse 
of me, and there she stopped for a moment, peering with 
suspicious keenness, her long body drawn out to its ut- 
most extent, and to the thinness of a weasel, her eyes 
glittering like fire stones in the sunny ray, one velvet 
fore-paw cautiously advanced, the other delicately curling 
inward, till, crouching gradually to the very ground, she 
slipped away with the swiftness of lightning, and vanished 



84 CHURCHYARDS. 

as noiselessly. The glimpse of that living- creature lured 
me onwards, however ; for I thought, by following her 
track, I might possibly find my way to the kitchen or 
offices. I was not deceived in my conjecture. The first 
turning to the right afforded to my choice two open door- 
ways — one leading into a kitchen, the other into a small 
wainscoted chamber, looking like a housekeeper's room. 
I turned into the former — a fine old-fashioned place, with 
a huge gaping fire-place ; deep narrow windows in the 
thick walls — old oak benches and tables, with voluted 
legs, braced together with massive bars — ranges of bright 
pewter and fine old delft — huge round dishes, with scal- 
loped edges — antique tea-kettles — spits on which an ox 
might have been roasted whole — coffee-pots, and choco- 
late-pots, and posset- pots, and porringers, and pipkins, 
little squat things upon three feet, that looked as if they 
could toddle about by themselves — and vessels and uten- 
sils of all shapes and sizes, wares, and metals, whose pro- 
per use it would have puzzled any soul to determine, 
save he, that wight well versed in ancient lore, who has 
written so learnedly on culinary antiquities. I could have 
worshipped the very pot-lids ! But there was no time to 
indulge the idolatrous longing, and, alas ! no creature 
visible — no living creature but my tortoise-shell guide, 
who had taken up her station before the glowing wood 
fire on the hearth, over which, suspended by a monstrous 
crook, hung a great black tea-kettle, spitting and sput- 
tering in concert with the drowsy hum of Madam Grim- 
alkin. " I took but one look, and then tore myself, 
away," peeping for a moment, as I passed it, into the 
adjoining small apartment. That was also vacant — but 
through the wide lattice window, I spied a small green 
court, bordered under the surrounding walls with beds of 
sweet and useful herbs and shrubs, and a few flowers — 



CHAPTER VII. 85 

coxcombs and love-lies-bleeding 1 were trailing- on the 
bright smooth turf — Two sweet bay-trees flourished in 
opposite corners, and everlasting peas clung to the wall, 
and here and there a line old rosemary, and many sweet 
old-fashioned herbs. Peppermint and basil, and sweet 
marjoram, and fragrant lavender, had their place amongst 
polyanthuses and sweet-williams, within the feathery 
fringe of London pride. 

Another, and another look, I stole through the open 
lattice, at that lovely little garden. 

The possession of such a one would have satisfied all 
my ambition as a landholder, but I called to mind the 
tenth commandment, and turned hastily away to rejoin 
my friends without. They, meanwhile, had been success- 
ful in their application to the haymakers, and I met them 
re-entering the second court, accompanied by a little old 
humpbacked dame, with small, twinkling, three-cornered, 
blue eyes, with red rims, and two pink puckered cheeks, 
like frost-bitten pippins. She looked like one of the 
appurtenances of the place, and seemed familiar with 
everything relating to " the family." From her we learned, 
that the whole domestic establishment, (now reduced to 
a very few servants,) had turned out into the hay-field, 
with the exception of the housekeeper, who had walked 
into the village, " Miss Grace's maid," (for so the aged 
dame called her still more aged mistress,) who was sitting- 
in her lady's sick-chamber, and a footman, who was some- 
where about the offices, she supposed, and whom she 
would seek out, and send to us. So we stood quietly 
waiting in this beautiful court-yard, caressing the old dog, 
and examining- the rich bay windows, while the dame 
passed into the house, on the mission she had undertaken 
in our service. 

Whoever would know more of Halliburn House, will 
wait with us, till we learn the result of her embassy. 



86 CHURCHYARDS. 



CHAPTER VIII. 

Our old woman was so long absent on her mission, 
that I suspect the footman she went in search of was also 
to be summoned from the hay-cart, or the rick-burton. 
At last, however, he made his appearance from the in- 
terior of the house, shrugging- up, as he came towards us, 
(as if hastily slipped on,) along brown livery-coat, ample 
enough in its dimensions to have served him for a sur- 
tout, and so gorgeously trimmed with broad blue and 
orange lace, and silver tags, as to be little in keeping with 
his grey worsted hose, clumsy hobnailed shoes, and soiled 
cravat, loosely knotted about the open shirt- collar. His 
honest, ruddy, shining face, gave evidence beside, that he 
had been hastily called off from his rural labour ; and his 
straight yellow hair was pasted down on his forehead, but 
not by the artificial medium of huile antique or pommade 
au jasmin. We set him down for the grandson or great- 
nephew of some old steward or butler; and, through all 
its native rusticity, there was a respectful intelligence in 
his manner of replying to our queries, which proved him 
to have had " his bringing up'' in the well-ordered house- 
hold of an old-fashioned English gentleman. We had 
further evidence of this as he escorted us through the 
apartments we were permitted to see, and pointed out to 
our notice, in a modest, unobtrusive manner, very dif- 
ferent from the general style of guides at show-houses, 
such things as were most worthy of remark, and those 
amongst the pictures and portraits as were considered 
most interesting. To our first application to be allowed 



CHAPTER VIII. 87 

to see the interior of the house, we received for answer, 
that it was seldom shown to strangers, and just then that 
Mrs De la Vere was seriously ill : he feared it would be 
impossible to admit us ; but if we pleased to send in our 
cards, his lady might possibly give orders that we should 
be shown through the lower apartments. We gave him 
our names accordingly, and in a few minutes he returned 
with the desired permission. 

Proceeding through the vestibule, he led us down that 
right-hand passage to the door I had remarked in my late 
exploring entree. It opened into a sort of anti-room, 
which looked rather like a small entrance hall to some 
forester's lodge, for it was hung about with all sorts of 
implements for rural sports — Guns, fishing-rods, fowling- 
nets, landing nets — spurs, bits, and snaffles, of all sorts 
and fashions — deers' antlers, stuffed birds, and vermin — 
and pictures of dead game, dogs and horses, and of various 
memorable fox-chases ; — and a variety of incongruous 
articles of furniture were here also collected together, as 
if useless at the present day, but too sacred as ancient 
relics to be more irreverently disposed of. Amongst 
others, I noticed a great old beehive porter's chair, in 
which was comfortably cradled a large grey and white cat, 
with a litter of kittens ; and hard by its venerable con- 
temporary, a heavy, high-backed, narrow-bottomed, 
tapestry settee, with one arm and five legs, the sixth 
wanting — the said arm, a bare, lean, wooden limb, poking 
out from the tapestry, in guise of certain human elbows, 
that I have seen protruding from female sides, over which 
one longed to draw down the puckered-up apology for a 
sleeve, that looked like the puffed-out handle of a basket- 
hilted sword — desperate inroads had been made by the 
devouring moth in the wrought covering of that disabled 
veteran. They had eaten up three-fourths of Holofernes' 



88 CHURCHYARDS. 

head, the head and legs of Judith's maid, and the best 
part of Judith herself; and yet we contrived to make out 
the story at a first glance, so keen was our antiquarian 
discrimination. 

Through this museum of ancient relics, we passed on 
into a second chamber, the first glimpse of which drew 
from us a simultaneous exclamation of delight. Stepping 
over its threshold, we seemed suddenly transported out 
of these stupid commonplace modern times, into that old 
world of romance and chivalry, which looks so picturesque 
through the mellow haze of antiquity. It was a long 
vaulted chamber, terminating, at the further end, in a 
wide and beautiful bay window, one of those that looked 
into the interior court-yard. The walls were panelled 
with some light-coloured wood, beautifully veined and 
polished, and wrought out in the richest and most fanciful 
carved work in the deep cornices, and the mouldings 
round the compartments. The vaulted ceiling was also 
groined in compartments of the most curious and intri- 
cate workmanship ; the darker wood whereof the ground- 
work was composed, finely relieving the pale groining, 
and showing to the greatest advantage the minutest 
beauties of its elegant combinations. The floor was tes- 
selated in a pattern of large octagons, filled up with small 
checkers alternately red and yellow, and surrounded by 
borders of a running chain-work, a deeper edge of which, 
with some additional ornamental stripes ran round the 
whole. Mantelpieces, brackets, screens, chairs, table — 
every thing was in keeping in that delightful chamber : 
and it was hung round with portraits, all interesting from 
their antiquity, and a few especially so, as rare and curious 
specimens of ancient art. There were two Holbeins, flat, 
shadowless, edgy compositions, but characteristic of the 
unquestionable merit of the artist, and as portraits deeply 



CHAPTER VIII. «y 

interesting. They were those of Elizabeth, then the 
Lady Elizabeth, and of her brother, the young- royal Ed- 
ward, (that brightest gem of England's buried hopes,) of 
whom the world was not worthy, neither the inheritance 
of a mortal crown. The effigies of many De la Veres, 
and of worthies lineally and collaterally allied to them, 
were ranged in the other compartments ; and I was par- 
ticularly struck with that of a fair young creature in the 
earliest bloom of womanhood, whose full heavy eyelids 
cast the shadow of their long lashes on her soft pale cheek, 
as she looked down upon the white rose her delicate 
fingers were inserting in the jewelled stomacher. " Ah V* 
— thought I, " that must be the fair Agnes ; and that pic- 
ture must have been finished on her nineteenth birthday; 
and on that very day, fell from that same white rose, the 
leaves found so lately in that old prayer-book." — Having 
thus arranged the story entirely to my own satisfaction, 
I should not have thanked any body for telling me I was 
mistaken — so I asked no questions. I could have dreamt 
away hours and hours — ay, days and days, in that interest- 
ing chamber ; but the door through which we were to pass 
into a third apartment was already open, and I could only 
linger for a moment on the threshold to indulge in a 
farewell survey. From that door of communication, one 
looked down the whole length of the room to the beautiful 
bay window — 

" A slanting ray of evening light 

Shoots through the yellow pane ; 
And makes the faded crimson bright, 

And gilds the fringe again. 
The window's Gothic framework falls 
In oblique shadows on the walls. 
How many a setting sun had made 
That curious lattice- work of shade !" 

I never beheld a chamber so adapted for the retreat of 



90 CHURCHYARDS. 

a studious, meditative man — so quiet, so solemn, so almost 
holy, yet untinctured with gloom, was the character of 
chastened repose that pervaded it ! Looking- down from 
that further end, where I stood in shadow, it required no 
strong effort of imagination to conjure up forms of the 
long-departed — a visionary group — harmonizing- with the 
scene, the surrounding- objects, and the mellow richness 
of that sunset hour. Place but a pile of ancient tomes on 
that carved table near the window, a roll or two of vellum, 
and an antique standish, and in that high-backed crimson 
chair a fair young lady, " of a sweet, serious aspect," and 
beside her a venerable old man, to whose grave, pleasant 
countenance her eyes are raised with a questioning look 
of sweet intelligence, while the forefinger of her small 
white hand points out a passage in that open folio, whose 
crabbed character can be no other than Greek. And 
now she looks up at that opposite picture of the young 
princely Edward, and the eyes of her venerable companion 
follow the direction of hers ; and then a glance of sym- 
pathetic pleasure is exchanged, that tells they are dis- 
coursing of England's hope. And, see ! a slanting sun- 
beam stealing upward across the old man's snowy beard, 
plays on her silken ringlets of paly gold, and on the 
dazzling whiteness of her innocent brow, investing it with 
seraphic glory ! Master and pupil they must be, that in- 
teresting pair; master and pupil — the learned and the 
lovely — the beauty of youth and age ! Who other than 
the Lady Jane Grey, and her venerable Ascham ? All 
this passed before the eyes of my imagination in about 
the same space of time that it took the Sultan to dip his 
head into the pail of water, or the Dean of Badajoz to 
turn that wonderful page, in the mere act whereof he 
passed through all grades of ecclesiastical rank, even to 



CHAPTER VIII. 91 

the chair of St Peter, before Dame Jacintha had put down 
the second partridge to roast. 

My recall from the realms of magic was less disagree- 
able than the worthy dean's, however, as casting behind 
me " one longing, lingering glance," I followed my friends 
into that third apartment, which had the appearance of 
being the common sitting-room of the ancient lady of the 
mansion. Our guide called it the drawing-room ; and, 
compared with those of the suite we had just seen, its 
fitting up might have been called almost modern. High 
panelled wainscoting, painted white, with gold mouldings, 
and the walls above — the narrow strip of wall — covered 
with a once-costly India paper, the large running pattern 
of which, on a pale yellow ground, was of scrawly branches, 
with here and there a palm-leaf and a flower, and birds, 
butterflies, and flying jars and baskets, all edged and 
veined with gold, dispersed over the whole in regular 
confusion. The high carved mantelpiece was decorated 
by two stupendous girandoles, and loaded with precious 
porcelain monsters, and other antique china ; as was like- 
wise a curious old Japan cabinet at the further end of the 
apartment. There was only one table in the room — (Oh, 
Gothic drawing-room !) — a very small inlaid Pembroke- 
table, placed geometrically in the centre of a rich, square 
Turkey carpet, which reached not within a yard of the 
skirting-board. There were no volumes of the poets 
splendidly bound — no elegant inkstands and morocco blot- 
ting-books — no silver-clasped albums — no musical-boxes, 
and agate-boxes, and ivory-boxes, and filigree-boxes, and 
pincushions in the shape of lyres, and penwipers in the 
shape of butterflies, and foreign curiosities, and curious 
nondescripts, disposed with happy carelessness and pictu- 
resque effect on that same table. No — sacred was its 
polished surface from all such profane litter — inviolate, no 



92 CHURCHYARDS. 

doubt, since its creation, from all uses save those for 
which it was especially ordained — to receive the silver- 
tea-tray every evening duly as the clock struck six, and 
the chased tea-kettle and lamp, and the two rare old 
china plates of rich seed-cake, and wafer-bread and butter. 
There were two settees in the room, not dragged out 
higgledy-piggledy into the middle of the floor, according 
to the indecorous fashion of our degenerate days, but 
soberly and symmetrically placed on either side the old 
cabinet, from which, and from the wall behind them, in 
all likelihood they had never been divorced since their 
first establishment there. Noways resembling our square 
deep sofas, loaded with down-cushions, or our Grecian 
couches, or luxurious Ottomans, these venerable iramo- 
vables, with their four little brown legs with claw-feet — 
(no "wheeling" them round — they must have walked, if 
they had moved at all) — their hard narrow seats, and 
high upright backs, sloping down at the sides into two 
little wings, spread out like those of an old buggy, looked 
just big enough to contain one lady with a hoop, or, 
haply, a pair of courting lovers ; the fair one, perchance, 
in a full-trimmed yellow sacque, with deep ruffles, and 
peaked shoes, the points of which, " like little mice, peep 
out" from underneath the pinked and crimped furbelowed 
petticoat, and her hair strained up so tight over a high 
cushion, parapeted with little flowers and bodkins, and one 
small ostrich feather drooping coquettishly over the left 
ear, as to draw up the outer corners of her eyes like but- 
ton-holes, adding infinite piquancy of expression to the 
sweet simpering modesty with which she affects to look 
down on that great green fan. " Then the lover," in a 
bag and solitaire, a pea-green silk coat, lined with jon- 
quil, an embroidered waistcoat, with prodigious flaps, 
languishing towards her — the off-leg sticking straight out 



CHAPTER VIII. 93 

like the leg of a woodcock — one arm supported on the 
back of the settee, the other, the ruffled hand at least, 
with a brilliant ring- on the crooked-up little finger, pre- 
senting a full-blown rose to the goddess of his idolatry, 
while he warbles in falsetto, 

" Go, rose ! my Chloe's bosom grace ! " 

Many such tender passages, between the former occu- 
pants of these old settees, were doubtless rehearsed there- 
on in the " mellow days" of generations past. To far 
other purposes were they now devoted. On one of them 
we remarked a little short black satin cloak, lined with 
squirrel skin, and edged with ermine all round, and at 
the arm-holes. It was carefully laid over one elbow of 
the settee, against which rested a tall ivory gold-headed 
walking-stick ; and upon the cloak was deposited a very 
small shallow-crowned bonnet, also of black satin, lined 
with white ; a deep lace curtain round the queer, little, 
flat poke, and no indication of strings — the cockernonny 
being evidently fixed on, when worn, by a couple of black 
corking-pins, which were, indeed, stuck in readiness in a 
pair of long, brown, snuff-colour gloves, laid palm to palm 
beside the bonnet — the tip of the forefinger and thumb 
wanting from the right hand glove. 

There were three windows in the room looking into a 
fourth court, so far differing from the others, that the 
outer wall consisted of a mere pediment, finished by a 
stone balustrade, and opening into a fine orchard by a 
wrought-iron gate. On the massy side-pillars of the 
gateway, and all along the balustrade, were ranged 
stone vases filled with white lilies, hollyhocks, red and 
yellow marvels of Peru, and branching larkspurs ; and in 
the centre of the grass-plot stood a fine old sundial on its 
rich carved spiral pedestal. Such was the " look-out" 



94 CHURCHYARDS. 

from those three windows. Between them were two pier- 
glasses in deep carved gilt frames, having branches for 
lights affixed to them. Underneath were two marble 
slabs ; on one of which were very methodically arranged 
a Bible and Common Prayer-Book, Mrs Glass's Cookery, 
Broome's Poems, the Book of Martyrs, Pamela, " A Fu- 
neral Sermon on the Death of the Lady Cuts," Jemmy 
and Jenny Jessamy, Jeremy Taylor's Golden Grove, "The 
Tete- a- Tete Magazine," and the Red Book for the year 
1 790. On the other stood a very antique-looking embossed 
silver salver, bearing two delicately transparent chocolate 
cups of eggshell china, yet exhaling the perfume of the 
grateful beverage they had recently contained, and a 
chased gold-handled knife lay beside a very inviting rich 
seedcake, on a fine old china plate. Beneath those two 
pier-tables stood two most magnificent china jars, con- 
taining such pot-pourris as could hardly have been con- 
cocted with the cloves, roses, and gillyflowers of these 
degenerate days — " Poperies," as I once heard the word 
pronounced by a worthy old gentlewoman, who believed, 
doubtless, that the fashion of those fragrant vases had 
been imported among us from the Vatican by some pa- 
triotic traveller, who had begged a receipt from the Pope, 
just as she would beg Mrs Such-a- one's receipt for " mock- 
turtle," or " calves' head surprised." Before either end- 
window was placed a small claw-table, or stand, support- 
ing, one, a glass globe with gold fish, the other a splendid 
gilt wire cage, containing an old grey parrot with gouty 
legs, who sat winking and blinking in his swing, croak- 
ing every now and then an unintelligible something, except 
that once or twice he articulated, very distinctly — "Pretty 
Miss Grace ! — Poor Puss ! — Noble Sir Richard !" 

A few framed pictures and fancy pieces were hung 
round the room in a straight line, very little below the 



CHAPTER VIII. 95 

cornice. There was a basket of artificial flowers, deli- 
cately and beautifully wrought from raised card. A shell- 
piece equally ingenious. A stuffed kingfisher, and a 
ditto cockatoo to match; and betwixt the twain, a land- 
scape worked with black silk upon white satin, represent- 
ing a castle with four towers, like pepper-boxes. A rock 
with a tree upon it, the sea washing its base, done in 
little zig-zag waves in herring-bone, and a tall three- 
decker overtopping rock, tree, and castle, sailing in stern 
foremost, " The Cressy" being worked thereon in letters 
as long as the castle windows. In one corner of the pic- 
ture, modestly wrought into the basement of the castle, 
was the name of the fair artist, " Grace de la Vere, her 
work, June 10, 1760." And that miracle of female taste 
and ingenuity was not without its pendant. Another 
picture, wrought with the same materials, on a similar 
ground, and in a style as fancifully chaste, but of more 
ambitious character. It was a scripture-piece, showing 
forth (as the beholder was considerately informed by a 
labelled inscription at the top, festooned up by two little 
cherubims, one of whom was also slily puffing out in one 
corner, the name of " Gertrude De la Vere,") the finding 
of Moses in the bulrushes — a stupendous piece ! There 
stood the Egyptian princess and her maidens, and the 
bulrushes, (marvellous tall ones they were !) all in a row, 
like four-and-twenty fiddlers. And lo ! Pharaoh's daugh- 
ter was depicted in a hoop and lappets, and having on her 
head the crown-royal ; and then the genius of the artist 
had blazed out in a bold anachronism, having designed 
that golden circlet in the fashion of an English ducal 
coronet, crested with the five ostrich plumes of the De 
la Veres ! And then one of the attendant damsels, 
agenouillee before her royal mistress, was handing up to 
her little Moses in his reedy ark, in semblance very like 



96 CHURCHYARDS. 

a skinned rabbit in a butter-basket. And then his sister, 
Jochebed, was seen sprawling- away in the background 
like a great mosquito sailing off in the clouds ; and the 
clouds were very like flying apple-dumplings — and the 
whole thing was admirable ! prodigious ! inimitable ! and 
wellnigh indescribable, though, to the extent of my feeble 
powers, I have essayed to do it justice. Moreover, there 
stood in that apartment two large square fire-screens, 
worked in tent-stitch ; and so well were they wrought, 
and so well had the worsteds retained their colours, that 
the large rich flowers in their fine vases — the anemones, 
roses, jonquils, and gillyflowers, seemed starting from the 
dark ground of the canvass. On one of those screens, 
close to the fire-place, hung a capacious white network 
bag, lined with glazed cambric muslin, and fringed all 
round ; it hung by one string only, so that a shuttle and 
a ball of knotting had fallen out from it on a chair 
alongside. There were a few grains of dust on that 
hard snowball, and on the blue damask chair-cushion, 
but they were of a nature that set me sneezing-, when I 
took up, with a feeling of melancholy interest, the mono- 
tonous work which had probably constituted, for so many 
silent hours, the chief and only amusement of the solitary 
old lady. That sprinkling of snuff, and the scarcely 
extinguished ashes in the grate, (the ashes of a July 
fire !) looked as if she had recently occupied the apart- 
ment ; and on enquiring of the servant, we were told 
that she had been down that afternoon for a very short 
time, but that the exertion had quite overpowered her, and 
she had returned so ill to her chamber.* that it was doubt- 
ful whether she would ever again leave it in life. " There 
had been a great change of late in his lady," the man 
added ; and the parson and the old housekeeper had at 
last prevailed on her to let them send for a distant rela- 



CHAPTER VIII. 97 

tion of the family's, on whom indeed the property was 
entailed, which very circumstance had hitherto excluded 
him from Halliburn House ; as Mrs Grace had been wont 
to say, " it would be time enough for him — a Ravenshaw ! 
— to come and take possession, when the last De la Vere 
was laid in her cold grave." 

I could not help thinking of this Mister Richard Ra- 
venshaw with a sort of jealous aversion, as if I, too, were 
a last lineal descendant of the old race whose name was 
so soon to be extinct in their ancient inheritance. 

Slowly, thoughtfully, almost sadly, we retraced back 
our steps to the door of entrance. Just as we reached 
it, the last sunbeam was shrinking away from under the 
archway of the outer court, and the old turret-clock struck 
out the eighth hour of the evening. Its tone was peculi- 
arly mellow, deep, and solemn ; or perhaps the stillness 
of the place and of the hour, the shadows that were 
falling round, and the corresponding seriousness of our 
feelings and thoughts — combined to swell and modulate a 
common sound into one of solemn intonation. It must 
have penetrated, however, (through that deep quietness,) 
into every corner of the mansion, and was heard, doubt- 
less, in the sick-chamber. How many De la Veres had 
listened to that warning voice ! Of how many had it 
proclaimed the hours of their birth, and of their death ! 
— the setting forth of the marriage-train, and the depar- 
ture of the funeral procession ! By how many had its 
strokes been numbered with youthful impatience, and 
eager hope, and joyful expectation ! By how many more 
with sad foreboding, and painful weariness, and sorrowful 
retrospection ! By how many a quick ear and beating 
heart, long since stopped with dust and cold in the 
grave I And still at its appointed hour that restless 
voice resounded — and still it told its awful tidings to a 

G 



98 CHURCHYARDS. 

descendant of the ancient race — to " the dull cold ear" of 
age of the last living De la Vere ! A few more circles 
yet to be revolved by those dark hands around the dial- 
plate, and she too would have closed her account with 
Time, and the solemn hour of its summing up would he 
sounded forth by that iron tongue through the quiet courts 
of Halliburn, and over its venerable woods I Then, me- 
th ought, fain would I silence for ever the voice from that 
old turret, that never sound thereof should announce the 
arrival of an alien and a stranger, to take rule and lord- 
ship over the lands of the De la Veres, and possession of 
their antique dwelling-place. 



CHAPTER IX. 99 



CHAPTER IX. 

I have no very poetical fancies about my last earthly 
resting-place — at least no Cockney poetical fancies. It 
would afford me no particular satisfaction to know that 
my ashes shall repose in the centre of a sweet little pet 
island, (as the young ladies say,) like a green velvet pin- 
cushion in the middle of a beautiful pond inhabited by 
Muscovy ducks, and frilled round with lilacs and labur- 
nums — that an urn of the purest alabaster and most 
classical form, appropriately inscribed with a few words, 
condensing volumes of simple pathos, shall mark the 
consecrated spot overhung by the vegetable weepers of 
the pale pensile willow. "All this to know," would 
afford me very little satisfaction ; yet I am by no means 
without my prepossessions on this matter — equally absurd 
ones, perhaps, if subjected to the severe test of reason, 
and too much divested of sentimental elegance, to interest 
the feelings of refined taste. 

I would fain lie down to rest under the same sod which 
has received the deposit of my kindred earth. It is in 
vain that I argue with myself: What matters where the 
poor frame shall return to corruption, from which its 
immortal inhabitant is departed? — What matters it how 
far we sleep asunder from those beloved in life — when it 
is but for the night of slumber — -when, at the dawn of 
the eternal day, the same clarion shall awaken all at the 
same moment, and assemble us together from the re- 
motest ends of the earth, and from the unfathomed depths 
of the great sea ? It is all in vain that I thus argue with 



1 00 CHURCHYARDS. 

myself, and in my wiser moments strive to think thus. 
Nature's resistless pleading- — her tender infirmity, tri- 
umphs over the cold suggestions of reason; and my heart 
cherishes the fond anticipation that I may be gathered 
in death to the sepulchre of my people. 

Moreover, I would fain make my bed with the lowly 
in death — I would fain be laid decently at rest — not with- 
in the walls of my parish church — polluting the holy 
temple with corruption — but in its outer court, the com- 
mon burial-ground, in the midst of those of all stations, 
whose faces have been familiar to me, whether as those 
of friends, neighbours, or acquaintances, or as hearers of 
the same word, guests at the same altar with me, par- 
takers of the same cup, professors of the same faith, 
sharers in the same hopes, believers in the same resurrec- 
tion. Amongst these would I lie down undistinguished, 
with no other monument than a plain headstone — no 
other covering than the green turf. Let no cold heavy 
tomb be laid upon its soft light texture. Methinks I 
would not have even my grave excluded from the bright 
sunbeams and the blessed air, whose sweet influences are 
to me the elixir of life. 

Such are the most romantic fancies I have ever indulged 
with regard to my allotted place of sepulchre. But I 
will confess one other weak prejudice relating- to it. I 
have a horror, an inexpressible horror, of being committed 
to the earth of a London cemetery : — those dungeons of 
death — those black, dismal, wall-imprisoned fields of 
corruption, more abhorrent to my feelings than the Nea- 
politan pits of promiscuous sepulchre, or those appalling 
receptacles of mortality, where the dead of the Parsees 
are left exposed to blacken in the^un, or to gorge the 
carrion birds, who gather unmolested to their accustomed 
banquet. A London burying -ground is more horrible 



CHAPTER IX. 101 

than these. There the stillness of death is indeed appal- 
ling, contrasted with the surrounding ceaseless roar of the 
living multitude — the stir of the vast city, pouring 
through all its avenues the tide of restless population. 
Those gloomy wall-surrounded fields of death are not, 
however, the most gloomy burial-grounds contained in 
the metropolis. I have passed some old black-looking 
parish churches — in the city, I think — half buried in their 
adjoining small crowded cemeteries — so crowded, it is 
frightful to think of it — elevated high above the dark 
narrow street — generation on generation — tier on tier — 
coffin on coffin piled, heaped up one above the other with 
unseemly haste — a mound of decomposed mortality, at 
thought of which, of the more recent deposits in particular, 
imagination recoils, and the heart sickens. — And then 
those dingy tombstones, with the black, filmy, sooty pall 
clinging about them ! — those dismal vaporous hangings ! — 
that rank black grass ! — those long yellow sickly nettles ! 
and those pale livid fungi, looking like pestilent excres- 
cences, the horrid fruitfulness of that tainted mould ! — I 
have hurried past those dismal receptacles with averted 
eyes, and restrained respiration, as from the vicinity of a 
pest-house. And yet once — once indeed — I lingered long 

and voluntarily within the precincts of St . But 

I will not name the church. My visit was to one of its 
surrounding graves, to which I had been attracted by some 
affecting circumstances which had been related to me of 
its poor tenant. England had afforded her that last 
gloomy resting-place, but she was not a native of its soil ; 
and the inscription on the modest headstone placed over 
her remains, told that " Blanche D'Albi, born in 1801, 
in the canton of ZurMi, Switzerland, departed this life in 
Lombard-street, London, in the year 1820." Oh, simple 
record ! more eloquent, more touching, than all that 



102 CHURCHYARDS. 

poetry and sentiment could have woven into the most 
diffuse epitaph. 

So far from her country, her kindred, and her home — 
taken away so early, in the very bud of life ; there, amongst 
the dust of strangers, under those black walls, beneath 
that rank soil, those baleful weeds, lay the daughter of 
that lovely mountain land, to which, doubtless, in the 
happy, sanguine confidence of youth, she had so often 
anticipated the rapturous hour of her return. All this, 
and more than this, was suggested to the heart by that 
brief inscription. But it did not tell all. It did not tell 
that the young creature who slept below had been singu- 
larly beautiful — of the happiest and gentlest nature — 
engaging to a very unusual degree, the darling of fond 
parents ; the happiest maiden of her happy land, the 

blithest bird of her native mountains, till But why 

not relate at once the few simple notices which have fallen 
in my way, connected with the brief existence of the 
young stranger ? They will form, at best, but an imper- 
fect and very uneventful story, but such a one as found 
its way to my heart, and may interest those whose tastes 
and feelings are yet unperverted by the feverish excite- 
ment and exaggerated tone of modern fiction. 

Blanche D'Albi, at the time of her decease, had been 
for more than a twelvemonth resident in the family of 

Mr L , one of the wealthiest merchants in the city 

of London. She had been engaged as French governess 
to his four little daughters, who were also provided with 
an English teacher, and attended by half the masters in 
the metropolis. The young Swissess had been received 
on the most unexceptionable recommendation, as to 
character, connexions, and elegant acquirements; but no- 
thing more of her private history was communicated, 
than that she was the only daughter of a respectable 



CHAPTER IX. 103 

Protestant minister ; that the sudden death of both her 
parents, occurring- within a few months of each other, had. 
left her, at the age of eighteen, a destitute orphan, 
deprived of the protection of an only brother, who, 
previous to the death of their parents, had taken service 
in the Swiss corps of De Meuron, and had accompanied 
that regiment to India. So situated, Blanche D'Albi 
had recourse for her future maintenance to the expedient 
so often resorted to, even under happier circumstances, 
by numbers of her young countrywomen. 

In company with several young persons from her own 
canton, embarked on the same enterprise, and provided 
with such recommendations as could be obtained to mer- 
cantile houses in London, or to such of their own country- 
men as were already established there, Blanche bade adieu 
to her " own romantic land ;" and very shortly after her 
arrival in England, it was her good fortune to be engaged 

in the family of Mr L , where her situation might 

with truth have been called almost enviable, compared 
with the general lot of young persons in the same cir- 
cumstances. She shared the schoolroom, and the task of 
educating four engaging, spoiled children, with an elderly 
English governess, to whose domineering, but not harsh 
temper, she willingly yielded supremacy, and was there- 
fore treated by Miss Crawfurd with somewhat of the in- 
dulgent consideration she would have bestowed on an 
elder pupil. The little girls soon attached themselves 
fondly to their young, indulgent governess, and their 
affection soon obtained for her all the good-will and 

unbending kindness it was in the nature of Mrs L to 

confer on any human being in a dependent situation. 
Mr L , a man of cold and formal manners, fully im- 
pressed with the sense of his own wealth and consequence, 
but one whose better feelings were not all sacrificed at 



104? CHURCHYARDS. 

the shrine of Mammon, treated her with invariable and 
almost attentive politeness, during- the stated intervals, 
when, in attendance on her young- charges, she was 
admitted to his society. It is true, he exchanged but few 
words with her, and those appeared constrained, as if by 
the latent fear of compromising- his dignified importance; 
but there was a gentleness in the tone of his voice when 
he addressed himself to the timid orphan, and a benevo- 
lence in his eyes, which carried with them to the young- 
bereaved heart of Blanche D'Albi, a far kindlier signifi- 
cation than was implied by the mere words of his in varied 
formal salutation, " I hope your are well to-day, Ma'am- 
selle ?" 

Blanche had not only every comfort but many luxuries 
at her command, especially that which she prized beyond 
all others, the disposal of her own time for some hours 
in the evening- of each day. Taking- all circumstances 
into consideration, therefore, the young- emigrant might 
be pronounced singularly fortunate, in having- so soon 
found shelter in so secure a haven. And she felt that 
Providence had been very gracious to her, and her heart 
was grateful and contented — But was she happy? Who 
ever asked that question ? Who ever doubted that she 
was so in a situation so favoured with peculiar ad- 
vantages ? The home she lost, the friends she had left, 
the brother so widely separated from her, the recollection 
of her own dear village^ and of her young- happy years — 
No one ever inquired into, or interested themselves about 
all these things. No voice inviting confidence ever in- 
terrupted those deep and silent spells of inward vision, 
when all the past was busy in her heart, and one frank 
kind question, one affectionate word, would have unlocked 
— as from the source of a fountain — all the ingenuous 
feelings, all the tender recollections, all the anxious 



CHAPTER IX. 105 

thoughts and innocent hopes, that were crowded together 
in that pure sanctuary, cherished and brooded over in 
secret and in silence, till the playful vivacity of her 
nature (its characteristic charm in happier days) was 
subdued into a tone of almost reserved seriousness. At 
times, during the play-hours of the children, when they 
had coaxed her to mingle in their innocent sports — at 
such times the playful beauty of her nature would break 
out into a gleam of its former brightness ; and then her 
laugh was so joyous, her countenance so sparkling, her 
voice so mirthfully in unison with their childish glee, 
that a stranger would have taken her for the eldest sister, 
and the happiest of those four happy children. 

Those, also, were among her whitest moments, when, 
encircled by her young attentive auditory, she spoke to 
them — for to them she could speak of it — of her own 
native land ; of its high mountains, whose tops were 
white with snow in the hottest summer days; of the 
seas of ice, with their hard frozen ridges ; of its beautiful, 
clear lakes, on one of which she and her little brother had 
been used to row their fairy bark. Of the Chalets, where, 
in their mountain rambles, they had been feasted on rural 
dainties by the hospitable peasants ; of the bounding 
chamois, and of their daring hunters, amongst whom her 
brother Theodore, and a young friend of his whom she 
called Horace, had been foremost in bold enterprise ; and 
then she told, how, once returning from a long and ven- 
turous chase, the friends had brought her home a little 
wounded chamois; and the children never tired of hearing 
how she had nursed and reared, and at last, with success 
almost unexampled, brought to perfect tameness the 
wild creature of the mountain ; and how Horace Vaud- 
reuil (they had learned to speak his name and that of 
Theodore familiarly) had encircled its slender elegant 



1 06 CHURCHYARDS. 

neck with a small silver collar, on which was engraven, 
" J'appartiens a Blanche? 

Once the little inquisitive creatures had innocently 
questioned her* about her parents — asking, if she had 
loved them as dearly as they did their papa and mamma ; 
but then the only answer they obtained was, that the 
mirthful voice of their cheerful playfellow died away into 
a tremulous, inarticulate sound ; and that, suddenly hiding 
her face on the fair bosom of the youngest child, who was 
seated on her lap, she gave way (for the first time before 
them) to an agony of tears and sobs, that wrung their 
young hearts with distressful sympathy, and soon melted 
them all to tears as they clung round her, with their 
sweet, loving, broken consolations. There is something 
more soothing in the caressing tenderness of childish 
sympathy, than in all the consolatory efforts of mature 
reason. In the first agony of a bereaved heart, or rather 
when the first benumbing shock is passing away, who 
would not shrink from rational comforters — from persua- 
sive kindness — from the very voice of friendship itself, 
to weep unrestrainedly in the clasping arms of an infant, 
on its pure, innocent bosom ? It is as if a commissioned 
angel spoke peace from Heaven — pouring the balm of 
heavenly comfort on a wound too recent to bear a touch 
less gentle, less divine! 

From that hour the little girls spoke only of Theodore 
and Horace, when, collected round Blanche, they pleaded 
for one of her " pretty stories about Switzerland." From 
the secret indulgence of tender recollections, and dreamy 
hopes, Blanche insensibly fell into those habits of abstrac- 
tion too common to persons of imaginative minds, and 
deep and repressed sensibility ; and not unfrequently she 
drew upon herself the sharp observation of Miss Craw- 
furd, or the cold surprise of Mrs L , by starting, in 



CHAPTER IX. 107 

bashful confusion, at the repetition of some question or 
remark which had failed in rousing her attention when 
first addressed to her. It was an evil habit, and Blanche 
was conscious of its being- so : and she listened with peni- 
tent humility to Miss Crawfurd's school lectures on the 
" affectation and ill-breeding- of young persons who gave 

way to absence of mind," and to Mrs L 's wonder at 

" what Mademoiselle could be thinking of." 

What could she be thinking of? — Oh, Heavens ! in 
that dull square — pacing those formal walks, under those 
dusty trees — in that more dull, more formal drawing- 
room, when the prattling tongues of her little charges 
were no longer at liberty — when she felt herself indeed a 
stranger and an alien — what could she think of, but of 
the days that were past, and of those that might be in 
store for her, if ever .... And then there swam before 
her eyes visions of a white, low dwelling, all embowered 
in honeysuckle — of a little green wicket in a sweet-brier 
hedge — and of one who leant over it, idling away the 
precious moments, long after he had presented the gar- 
land or the nosegay, arranged for her hair or her bosom ; 
and then the scene changed to a grass plat and a group 
of linden-trees, and her own dear parents sat under their 
shade, with other elders of the village, whose children 
were mingling with her in the merry dance on that fine 
greensward, to the sweet tones of Theodore's flute; and 
then there were parting tears, and inarticulate words — 
and the agony of young hearts at a first separation — and 
a little boat lessening across the lake — and waving hands 
— and the last glimpse, on the opposite shore, of glitter- 
ing uniforms and waving plumes ; and then there was 
darkness, and fear, and trouble — and the shadow of death 
fell on the dear white cottage, and a sullen bell tolled — 
and, yet again — and one funeral, and then another, wound 



108 CHURCHYARDS. 

away, from its low entrance, across the grass plat beneath 
the linden-trees, towards the church, where the new 
minister 

But the fond dreamer shut her eyes to exclude that 
torturing- sight — and theu — and then the harsh voice of 
some cold observer (all voices sound harshly to senses so 
absorbed) recalled her to reality, and to painfully con- 
fused consciousness of the surprise and displeasure her 
inattention had excited. 

Poor Blanche ! — Thou hadst been the beloved of many 
hearts I — the darling of some ! — the object of almost ex- 
clusive affection I — How difficult to be contented with 
less ! — How cold, by comparison, the after interest we 
may awaken in other hearts — even in gentle and tender 
ones — whose first affections are yet given to dearer claim- 
ants ! — How hard to endure the measured kindness of 
mere well-wishers — the constrained courtesy of well-bred 
indifference — the unintentional slight of the regardless 
many — the cutting contumely of the malicious few ! — 
How withering, contrasted with former looks of love, and 
its endearing tones, the severe glance of a censorious 
eye — the harsh inflection of a reproving voice ! — How 
bitter to remember all one has been to some dear, de- 
parted being — and to feel that one is nothing, compara- 
tively nothing, to any living creature in this wide, wide 
world ! 

Some of these sad experiences had fallen not unfre- 
quently to the lot of the fair orphan — had fallen like 
ice-bolts on the youthful enthusiasm of her confiding 
nature ; but, though checked by that untimely frost, the 
sensitive blossom had but shrunk inward, nourished in 
secret by the warm well-spring of Hope, which lay hidden 
in the deep recesses of her heart. 

Twice, since her residence in the family of Mr L -, 



CHAPTER IX. 109 

the monotonous existence of Blanche had been diversified 
by occurrences of unspeakable importance to her. Twice 
had she received letters from India — voluminous letters, 
penned by more than one hand, though contained in the 
same envelope directed by her brother. She wept abun- 
dantly over the first of these packets — over her brother's 
letter — his reply to that in which she had communicated 
to him their mutual loss, and her own plans to seek an 
honourable subsistence as governess in some English 
family. It is easy to conceive the deeply affecting pur- 
port of that fraternal answer. Even from that fearful 
distance, the hearts of the orphans met and mingled. The 
tears of Theodore had blotted the lines, on which those 
of Blanche fell, as she read, like summer rain-drops — 
as free, as fast, and as kindly — lightening her heart of the 
long pent-up load of unparticipated grief. 

But Theodore's letter contained one written in a dif- 
ferent handwriting ; and though the tears of Blanche still 
fell as she perused those characters, they were the last 
drops of the shower, through which a sunbeam was 
already breaking. Upon the contents of that packet she 
might have been said to live for many weeks ; for day 
after day her eyes fed upon them, till one of her little, 
innocent observers asked, in a tone of artless sympathy, 
if she were not tired of trying to learn all that close, long- 
writing by heart, which had vexed her so much, too, at 
the first reading ? 

The second letters were as eagerly and anxiously opened 
as the former had been. But these were read with glist- 
ening eyes only, while the rekindled light of gladness 
beamed on the ingenuous countenance of Blanche ; and 
sometimes, in the midst of some twentieth re-perusal, as 
if her heart sought sympathy in the exuberance of its 
happiness, she would catch up in her arms, and half 



110 CHURCHYARDS. 

smother with playful kisses, one of the wondering child- 
ren — as ready, however, at least, to share the joy of their 
young- instructress, as to participate in her sorrows. With 
those last letters came an ivory work-box, an elegant 
oriental toy, lined with sandal-wood, and fitted up with 
many compartments, each containing some ingenious 
nick-nack — some small tool of fairy workmanship fash- 
ioned for a lady's hand, or some exquisite essence in its 
flacon of gilded glass. The delight it was to the inqui- 
sitive children to pry, over and over again, into every 
drawer and compartment in this beautiful box ! And 
Blanche was too sweet-tempered to refuse the often-asked 
indulgence ; only she watched with jealous care, lest their 
little, busy fingers should unwittingly injure any part of 
the delicate workmanship ; and if Miss Crawfurd was 
present, she resisted, with evident annoyance, their im- 
portunities to be allowed to take out of a cunning, secret 
drawer, (which had not long remained secret for them,) 
two beautiful, little pictures — " so beautiful ! " they said ; 
" and one so like Ma'amselle ! " — That one was her bro- 
ther's miniature ; and when they asked her, if she did 
not love him dearly for sending her such a fine present, 
she smiled and blushed, and simply answered, that she 
did indeed dearly love him. The little girls were not 
long in discovering, moreover, that the return of this 
dear brother had been announced in his last letter. The 
regiment was recalled to Europe, and he wrote on the 
eve of embarkation. 

No wonder that, on the evening of that day which had 
brought her such blissful tidings, the fair face of Blanche 
was radiant with such a glow of happiness as to attract 
even the passing notice of Mrs L , and the more be- 
nevolent observation of her husband, as their young 
inmate with her pupils modestly approached the awful 



CHAPTER IS. Ill 

verge of her drawing-room circle. The exuberant glad- 
ness of her heart was longing to communicate and diffuse 
itself; and the look and tone of almost affectionate filial 
confidence with which she replied to Mr L 's accus- 
tomed salutation, was so irresistibly winning, that it 
drew from him another and another sentence, till at last 
he found himself chatting with her, almost with the af- 
fectionate familiarity of a father, and had actually gone 
the length of calling her " My dear ! " without being- 
conscious how insidiously the natural kindliness of his 
nature had encroached on that dignified condescension to 
which he conceived it proper to confine all manifesta- 
tions of good-will towards his daughters' governess. 

Mademoiselle D'Albi's continuance in the evening 
circle, or rather in its outworks, was usually restricted 
to the space of half an hour, while the tea and coffee were 
carried round, and till the bed-time of her pupils, when, 
with a silent curtsy, she left the drawing-room with them, 
and having accompanied them to their apartments, joy- 
fully retired to the unmolested quiet of her own. But it 
sometimes happened that Mrs L 's party being enli- 
vened by the accession of several young persons, music 
and quadrilles became the order of the evening. At such 
times the talents of Blanche were put in requisition, and 
she was detained to play for the benefit of the dancers, 
whose enjoyment was enhanced in no trifling degree by 
the spirit and correctness of the musician, and by the 
variety of beautiful airs in which she was a proficient. 
Poor Blanche ! how often, in the days that were gone, 
had she tripped it to those very measures — the admired 
of all eyes, and the beloved of all hearts — amongst the 
lovely and beloved, the happy band of her young compa- 
nions ! It was wonderful (with all those recollections in 
her heart) how she could sit before that instrument, look- 



112 CHURCHYARDS. 

ing so patient and contented, playing on hour after hour 
with such unerring touch, and unflagging spirit ! Yes — 
there she sat, regardless and disregarded of every crea- 
ture in the gay assemblage — unless it were that every 
now and then some gentleman of the party stole a furtive 
glance of admiration at the lovely foreigner, inwardly 
desirous, maybe, that he could exchange his sprawling, 
bounding partner, with all her newly-imported Parisian 
graces and frippery clumsily tacked upon English awk- 
wardness, for that young sylphlike creature, so elegant 
in her unadorned simplicity ; for Blanche, still in mourn- 
ing for her parents, wore a plain black robe ; and a profu- 
sion of soft, fair, silky ringlets, one thick glossy braid 
encircling and confining them like a diadem, were the 
only decorations of a head remarkable for its classical 
beauty, and the peculiar gracefulness of carriage which 
was its characteristic expression. 

Sometimes also a pair of misses would saunter towards 
her during the intervals of the dance, and drawl out a 
few words of enquiry about some fashionable air ; while 
their eyes were busily engaged in taking notes of the 
becoming manner in which her hair was arranged, and 
of the foreign tournure of her sable dress. 

It so happened, that on the very evening when the 
heart of Blanche was overflowing with its secret hoard 
of gladness — Oh, how long had that poor heart been a 

stranger to such blissful feelings ! — Mrs L 's circle 

was a large and gay one, and a proposal to form quadrilles 
being suddenly made, and as promptly acceded to, Made- 
moiselle was detained to take her patient sitting at the 
pianoforte. She had always acceded with willing sweet- 
ness to similar requisitions ; but this evening she sat down 
to the instrument with even joyous readiness, and the 
exuberance of her happiness found expression in such 



CHAPTER IX. 113 

sprightly measures, that her flying- fingers soon out- 
stripped the common time of the dancers, and many 
breathless calls for moderation were sent towards her 
from the scampering- and despairing performers. Then 
would she laugh and blush, and shake her head in playful 
self-reproach at her own lawless performance, and for a 
while — a very little while — the restless fingers were 
restrained to slower movements ; once or twice she look- 
ed towards, the dancers as if with a vehement longing- to 
spring- up and mingle in their gay evolutions, but those 
glances were momentary, and her eyes dropped again 
upon the ivory keys ; but such a smiling and half- exult- 
ing playfulness lurked about her mouth, as if she were 
anticipating some hour of future gladness, when she 
should join hands once more in the merry dance with the 
companions of her youth, on the earth — the lovely green- 
sward of her own dear country. Whatever were the fond 
reveries of poor Blanche, it is certain that her musical 
task was so unequally performed that evening, as to cause 
much discomfiture among the dancers, at length despair- 
ingly manifested in their relaxing exertions, and in the 
tedious lounging pauses between the sets. 

During one of these, a small knot of gentlemen stood 

conversing with Mr L , close to the pianoforte, on 

which, mingled with music-books and manuscripts, lay 
several pamphlets and newspapers. One of the gentle- 
men, carelessly glancing his eye over the miscellaneous 
heap, caught up a paper with suddenly-excited interest, 
exclaiming — " Ah ! here is already a public account of 
the melancholy occurrence, of which my letters from 
Madras make mention." Then rapidly he read aloud the 
paragraph, which stated that " The regiment de Meuron, 
being under orders for Europe, had been safely embarked 
on board the transports provided for its reception, all but 

H 



114 



CHURCHYARDS. 



the last boat, consisting of the Lieutenant-Colonel, his 
lady and their family, and two young- officers of the 
regiment, when, by some mismanagement, the boat was 
suddenly upset in that tremendous surf; and notwith- 
standing the exertions of the natives on their attending 
catamarans, every soul perished except the wife and 
youngest daughter of the Colonel, and one of the young 
officers, Lieutenant D' Albi." Then followed the names 
of those who had found a watery grave ; and the gentleman 
ran them quickelyover, till, just as he had pronounced that 
of " Horace Vaudreuil," a sudden crash of the piano keys 
caused a general start, and all eyes turning simultaneously 
towards the young musician, who had been awaiting the 
pleasure of the dancers in silence, patient and unnoticed, 
it was perceived that she had fallen forward on the instru- 
ment, her face and arms resting on the keys, and almost 
hidden by the redundance of fair soft ringlets, which had 
burst in rich disorder from the confining braid. 

She was raised up and conveyed to a sofa in a state of 
deathlike insensibility, from which, after long applica- 
tion of various stimulants, she revived only to relapse 
into successive faintings. The family apothecary being 
summoned, by his direction she was conveyed to her 
chamber and to her bed, and his prognostics were unhap- 
pily verified towards morning, when she awoke from a 
sort of trance, in which she had lain some hours in a 
high paroxysm of delirious fever. Great was the con- 
sternation occasioned in the family of Mr L by this 

sudden seizure of the young creature, whose personal 
importance in the establishment, except in relation to 
the labours of the school-room and the piano, had hitherto 

been very subordinate to that of Mrs L 's macaws 

and Persian cat. 

A peculiar horror of all contagious and infectious dis- 

■ 



CHAPTER IX. 115 

orders, was amongst the many peculiar horrors to which 

the sensitive lady of poor Mr L was peculiarly 

liable. It was in vain that the worthy man himself, 
having ascertained the decided opinion of the apothecary, 
again and again assured her that " Mademoiselle's disor- 
der was a brain-fever, which, however likely to terminate 
fatally, was not of a nature to be communicated even to 
the attendants of the sick-chamber." These assurances, 
backed by all the apothecary's assertions, were insufficient 
to allay the lady's horrors. " If not now infectious, the 
disorder might become so ;" and then she was convinced 

" all fevers were catching ; " and " If Mr L- was so 

indifferent to her safety, she could not think of her 
children and emulate his heroic composure. Not for 
worlds should they continue in that house two hours 
longer ; and she felt it her duty as a mother to be care- 
ful, for their sakes, of her own life, and to accompany 
them from that dangerous spot. It was madness in Mr 

L to stay there, if he would be persuaded ;" but 

Mr L was not to be persuaded — so, after conscien- 
tiously fulfilling her duty as a wife, by pathetically 
warning him of the probable consequences of his obsti- 
nacy, she bade him farewell with admirable firmness, 
and after a last parting injunction from the carriage- 
window, to fumigate all letters he might address to her 
from that house, she was driven from the door, and safely 
and luxuriously lodged before evening at her husband's 
Richmond villa, with her children and Miss Crawfurd. 
Great indeed — unspeakably great — " she assured all her 

friends, was her anxiety on Mr L 's account ; and 

they might conceive how agonizing it was to her feelings 
to leave him in so perilous a situation. Had she followed 
the dictates of her heart — But those sweet darlings ! 
Could she risk the lives of both their parents ! " And 



116 , CHURCHYARDS 

then tears of sensibility trickled from her eyes at the idea 
of their orphan state, had she fondly yielded to the 
temptation of sharing- her husband's danger, and falling a 
victim to the indulgence of her tender weakness. 

Mr L was truly and humanely concerned for the 

distressing situation of poor Blanche. So young ! so 
fair ! so friendless ! so utterly dependent now, in her 
unconscious state, on the mercy and charity of strangers — 
on the world's cold charity. But there are warm hearts 
amidst the frozen mass ; and all the kindly feelings of Mr 

L 's were now called into action by the affecting 

circumstances of that helpless being so cast on his bene- 
volence. He was a fond and anxious father ; and as the 
natural thought suggested itself, that, in the vicissitudes 
of human life, a fate as forlorn as that of the young 
foreigner might one day be the portion of his own darlings, 

Mr L inwardly pledged himself to act a parental part 

by Blanche D'Albi in this hour of her utmost need ; and 
the vow was not less religiously observed, because unut- 
tered to mortal ear, and registered in the depths of his 
own heart. By his order a careful nurse was provided, 
and a skilful physician called in, when, at the close of 
the second day from her seizure, Mademoiselle D'Albi 
was pronounced by the apothecary to be in imminent 
danger. Dr M.'s opinion coincided but too perfectly 
with that of his medical subaltern ; and, in spite of their 
united endeavours to save the interesting young creature 
intrusted to their care, it soon became evident that the 
hand of death was on her, and that human art was power- 
less to unloose that fatal grasp. Previous to her dissolu- 
tion, she lay for many days in a state of perfect stupor, 
far less painful to contemplate than the previous delirium, 
during which she had talked incessantly with the embo- 
died creatures of her fancy, rambling volubly in her native 



CHAPTER IX. 117 

tongue, and now and then breaking- out into snatches of 
wild song- or wilder laughter. But at last that fearful 
mirth died away in fainter and fainter bursts ; and broken 
syllables, and inarticulate sounds succeeded the voluble 
speech, like dying- murmurs of a distant echo ; and " then," 
as the nurse expressed it, " she lay as quiet as a lamb " 
for many, many days, with eyes half-closed, but not in 
slumber, or at least only in that slumberous torpor, the 
gentle harbinger of a more perfect rest. 

More than once or twice, or many times, had Mr 

L visited the sick-chamber of poor Blanche, while 

she lay like a waxen image in that deathlike trance. 
More than once, as he stood gazing on that fair, pale 
face, had large tears stolen down his own cheeks — and 
once, when there was a momentary glimmering of hope — 
a momentary amendment of pulse — he had caught the 
hand of the physician with a sudden energy, strangely 
contrasting his usual habits of formal reserve — exclaim- 
ing, " Save her ! Save her, my dear sir ! spare no pains, 

no cost — a consultation perhaps " and his agitated 

voice and incoherent words carried conviction to the heart 

of the good doctor, that if half the wealth of Mr L 

could have purchased the life of Blanche D'Albi, he 
would not have hesitated to make the sacrifice. 

But neither care nor skill, nor aught that wealth could 
command, or kindness lavish, could prolong the days 
already numbered, or reverse the decree that had gone 
forth. 

Towards the close of the fourteenth day of Blanche's 
illness, the respiration of the unconscious sufferer became 
quick and laborious, and Dr M., whose finger was on her 
pulse, directed that the curtains of her bed should be 
drawn aside, and a free current of air admitted through 
the opened windows. Mr L had entered with the 



118 CHURCHYARDS. 

physician, and stationing himself at the bed's foot, stood 
there with folded arms, and eyes fixed in sad and hope- 
less contemplation on the affecting object before him. 
Though the eyes of Blanche were more than half veiled 
by their full, heavy lids, a streak of soft blue was still 
discernible through the long dark lashes, from whence, 
however, emanated no spark of intelligence ; and far dif- 
ferent from the finely blended rose-hues of healthful 
beauty, was that bright crimson which burned in either 
cheek. Her head was raised a little from the pillow, by 
the supporting arm of the nurse, who, with her hand still 
at liberty, put aside the deep frill of her cap, and the dis- 
ordered ringlets which had escaped beneath it, that the 
sweet fresh air might visit with its comforting coolness 
those throbbing temples, and that burning brow. It was 
a beautiful, mild, warm April evening, redolent of life 
and joy, and Nature's renovation ; and the pale, golden 
light of an April sunset penetrated even through a London 
atmosphere, and amongst a labyrinth of high walls, and 
blackened roofs, and clustering chimneys, into the very 
chamber of Blanche; and even to that confined chamber, 
and over those gloomy precincts, came the soft breath of 
spring, breathing delicious fragrance, as it was wafted 
through her open window, over a box of mignonette, 
coaxed into early blossom by the assiduous cherishing of 
one who had watched over her miniature garden with the 
impatient interest of eager childhood. 

The balmy air stole gently, gradually into the sick- 
chamber, and between the parted curtains of the bed, as 
though it were a thing of intelligence, and came gladly 
on its blessed mission, to convey to the dying Blanche 
the last soothing sensation she might yet taste on earth — 
the odorous wafting of her favourite flowers. It came 
not in vain. As the caressing coolness played over her 



CHAPTER IX. 119 

face, and when it had wandered a few moments amongst 
the parted ringlets, her quick and laborious breathing be- 
came less and less distressing, and at length inhaling one 
long and deep inspiration, subsided into regular and 
almost imperceptible respiration, like that of a sleeping 
infant. 

At that moment, there struck up at the farther end of 
a neighbouring street a strain of wild music, from a band 
of itinerant musicians — wandering Savoyards. Wild and 
touching was the strain, as it came mellowed by distance, 
and mingled with the evening breeze. It was " Le 
Rans des Vaches." To every son and daughter of Hel- 
vetia, a spirit-stirring spell, a magic melody, never yet 
listened to unmoved by any wanderer from her mountain 
land — only the insensible ear of death, or of the dying 
.... but it seemed as if perception yet lingered in that 
of Blanche. As the notes of that national air swelled out 
more and more distinctly, a slight tremor passed over her 
features, and at last, as if awakening from a deep sleep, 
her soft blue eyes perfectly unclosed, and glancing up- 
wards towards the female form, on whose bosom her 
head was pillowed, she murmured in her own native 
tongue, " Maraan ! bonne Maman ! * 

As she uttered those few faltering words, her head 
sunk lower upon the nurse's breast, and half turning her 
face inward on that kind pillow, like a weary child, the 
fair eyelids dropped heavily over those soft blue orbs ; but 
long after their lustre was for ever shrouded, and long 
after the beautiful lips were closed, and the last breath 
had escaped them in those few touching words, the smile 
still lingered there with which those words were spoken, 
as if impressed by the parting rapture of recognition with 
the Maternal Spirit, permitted possibly to accompany 
the dark Angel on his awful mission, to overcome his 



J 20 CHURCHYARDS. 

terrors by her looks of heavenly welcome, and receiving 
from his hands the new Celestial, to be its conductress to 
those abodes of bliss, towards which, even in their day of 
mortal probation, the pious Mother had " trained up her 
child in the way she should go." 



BROAD SUMMERFORD. 121 



CHAPTER X, 

BROAD SUMMERFORD. . ' 

In the churchyard of Broad Summerford — But why 
should I affect to describe, as from my own recollection, 
a place with which I am utterly unacquainted except by 
report ? For verily, gentle reader, I never set foot in the 
said churchyard — neither in the quiet rectory adjoining 
thereunto — neither in the pretty village wherein they are 
situated. And yet each and all of those localities are as 
familiar to my mind's eye — not only as if I had seen them 
with the bodily organs, but as if I had long sojourned in 
the parish where they lie. — And no wonder ; for all those 
places were described to me at that season of life when 
imagination, like a cloudless mirror, reflects back every 
object presented before it with the faithfulness of truth, 
and the tablets of memory receive those proof-impres- 
sions, compared with which, the most perfect struck off 
in later years are faint and spiritless. Besides, the de- 
scriber was one rich in old tales, and family legends, and 
all sorts of traditionary lore ; one whom I could interrupt 
and question, with all the confidence of perfect familiarity, 
and the impetuous curiosity of youthful eagerness; and 
many a fire-light hour have I sat on the low footstool at 
her feet, listening to stories of past times, and departed 
generations, and scenes and places associated therewith, 
so graphically combined, that the illusion was perfect ; 
and often, in after life, I have caught myself speaking to 
others of those places, persons, and circumstances, as if 



122 CHURCHYARDS CHAP. X. 

I had been contemporaneous with the former, and fami- 
liar with the latter, from personal observation and expe- 
rience. Delightful season ! delicious hours ! ineffaceable 
recollections ! never to be superseded among the heart's 
most precious records, by any after enjoyment, however 
exquisite ! 

Far other scenes have I mingled in since then — far 
other interests have excited — far other feelings have 
engrossed me ; but, in weal and in woe — in cloud and in 
sunshine — in tumult and in silence — in crowds and in 
solitude — often, often have I looked back with a sicken- 
ing heart, a yearning tenderness, a bitter joy, to those 
quiet hours, when my all of earthly good — my world of 
felicity — was comprised in such little space — within the 
walls of that old-fashioned parlour, where the fire-light 
flashed broad and bright on the warm damask curtains, 
and I sat on that low footstool by the hearth, at the feet 
of one who never tired of telling those tales of other 
days, which I was never weary of listening to. Hers was 
the true graphic art of story-telling. Her portraits lived 
and breathed ; and, while I hung upon her words with 
mute attention, the long procession of generations gone, 
passed before me — not shadowy phantoms, but substan- 
tial forms — defined realities — distinguished, each from 
each, by every nice modification of characteristic peculi- 
arity — uncles, aunts, and cousins, (a bewigged and bro- 
caded host !) of whom most had been gathered, before 
my birth, to the sepulchre of their fathers, and the re- 
maining few had lived to bestow a patriarchal blessing 
on their infant descendant. All these, recalled to earth 
by the enchanted wand, were made to re-act their for- 
mer parts on the great stage for my especial pleasure ; 
and I became as familiar with the names, characters, and 
persons of those departed worthies, as she who really 



BROAD SUMMEKFOED. 123 

remembered their times, and had been herself the youth- 
ful darling- of their latter days. 

Among 1 those she best loved to speak of was a kind 
and gentle pair — an old bachelor, and his twin maiden 
sister, of the name of Seale — relations of my grandmother, 
who lived out together their long and blameless lives, 

" The world forgetting, by the world forgot," 

in an obscure, quiet village of Somersetshire, called Broad 
Summerford, of which parish Mr Seale was the revered 
and faithful pastor for the space of more than half a 
century. 

" They were the best people in the world," said my 
dear chronicler; " and some of the happiest days of my 
early youth were spent at the pleasant rectory of Broad 
Summerford. Our good relations had heard that my 
parents were suffering considerable anxiety on my account 
— my health having become so delicate as to indicate 
symptoms of decline — and that change of air and scene 
had been medically prescribed for me. The kind souls 
knew that my father and mother could not remove from 
the small country town where circumstances had fixed 
their residence, without very serious inconvenience, and, 
in the benevolence of their hearts, they forthwith dis- 
patched an epistle, requesting that their dear cousins 
would intrust the precious child to their safe keeping, 
and to the pure air and rural change of their pastoral habi- 
tation, for as long a time as they could spare her from 
the paternal roof, or till her health should be perfectly 
re-established, which they almost pledged themselves (with 
God's blessing) it would be in their salubrious village. 
Such an invitation from such inviters, was most gladly and 
gratefully accepted. My father accompanied me halfway 
to Broad Summerford, when he consigned me to the care 



124 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. X. 

of a grave, respectable-looking person, Mr Seale's confi- 
dential servant, who was sent with his master's equipage, 
(a dark-green calash, drawn by a steady, powerful old 
mare, whose sleek coat and broad back might have vied 
with those perfections of a London dray-horse,) to receive 
and escort me to the rectory. John Somers himself 
was clad in a suit of sober pepper-and-salt, the decent and 
becoming livery of his reverend master, in whose service 
he had grown grey, and been advanced, by long-tried 
worth and affection, something beyond the station of a 
mere domestic. The kind and considerate creature did 
his best to beguile me of my natural grief at parting with 
my father, for the first time in my short life of fourteen 
years. He pointed out to me all the most remarkable 
objects on our road — all the hamlets, noblemen's and 
gentlemen's seats ; and, as he had been born and bred in 
the county, his topographical information was enriched 
with store of anecdotes respecting the owners of all those 
goodly mansions. But as we approached Broad Summer- 
ford, all his descriptive zeal merged in that favourite spot ; 
and ever and anon it was, " Now, miss ! you're only four 
miles from the rectory ;"and then, " that's Squire R.'s house, 
miss — a special friend of master's;" — and, " now you're 
only two miles from the rectory — and there's the mill 
where our wheat is ground — sweet home-made bread 
you'll taste at Broad Summerford, miss ! — and now it's 
only one mile — half a one. There's master's upper glebe- 
land— and there's our folks and horses getting in the hay. 
Ay, old Joan and I should hardly have been spared just 
now for any thing, but to fetch you, miss — but you're 
come to Broad Summeford in a pleasant time. Now 
we're a'top of the last hill. — And there ! there ! look 
down to your right, miss — Don't you see that great 
stack of old chimneys all over ivy, and those two grey 



BROAD SUMMEEFOED. 125 

gables ? — That's the rectory, God bless it — and there's 
the dovecot, and the homecroft, that old Joan has all to 
herself — a lazy jade — and now we shall be round at the 
front gate in half a minute." And, as John Somers said, 
a short sweep brought us within that time in front of the 
rectory, at the fore-court gate of which stood its vener- 
able master, in hospitable readiness to receive and welcome 
his expected guest. He was indeed a man of most 
venerable aspect — of tall and large stature, but something- 
bowed by years, with a pale, placid, almost unwrinkled 
countenance, though the dim and faded lustre of his mild 
blue eyes betokened his advanced age, even more than 
the perfectly white hair, which, encircling his bald crown, 
descended even to his shoulders in still redundant waves 
of silky softness. The old man was standing with both 
hands crossed before him on the top of a thick knotted 
staff, and the attitude happily combining with his ortho- 
dox attire, the short cassock and apron became him with 
a sort of apostolic dignity. As the calash drew up to the 
gate, Mr Seale laid aside his staff, and coming forward, 
welcomed me with a look and voice of almost paternal 
kindness ; and though faithful John was already by the 
side of the vehicle to help me down, his master chose to 
perform that first hospitable office, and lifting me out in 
his feeble arms, (I was a small delicate girl — quite a child 
in appearance,) said, " Welcome to Broad Summerford, 
my dear little cousin. May God bless this meeting to 
us all ! " And with that affectionate and pious greeting, 
he half-led, half-carried me to the house-door, where, on 
the uppermost of the four broad steps which led to it, 
stood another aged welcomer, who tenderly reiterated 
her brother's Christian salutation, and sealed it with a 
maternal kiss, as she gently drew me to her kind bosom. 
And so in a moment the little wanderer was at home 



126 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. X. 

again — transported but from one home to another — from 
the arms of tender parents to those which encircled her 
almost as fondly. 

Mrs Helen Seale was the very personification of beau- 
tiful old age. A fairy creature she was — almost diminu- 
tive of stature — but her person in youth had been most 
delicately and symmetrically moulded; and in her old 
age it still retained much of its fair proportion, and all its 
native gracefulness. Her hands and arms were still beau- 
tiful ! The taper fingers and soft palms were yet tinged 
with that delicate pink, which still mantled like a maiden 
blush over a face where Time had set his seal indeed, 
but, as it should seem, reluctantly, as if the ruthless 
spoiler had half relented for once in his destructive work. 
Her eyes were blue, like her brother's, (the brother and 
sister were indeed twins in mincTand feature,) but their 
mild lustre was almost unimpaired ; and the soft hair 
that was combed in glossy smoothness over the roll, 
under her clear lawn cap, was but silvered here and there 
among its pale-brown waviness. No snow was ever 
whiter — no cobweb was ever finer than that same clear lawn 
of which Mrs Helen's cap, kerchief, rufiles, and apron were 
invariably composed ; and the latter was spread out in 
unrumpled purity over a richly quilted petticoat of silver 
grey silk, and a gown of the same material, abounding in 
such depth and amplitude of fold as would have furnished 
out a dozen modern draperies. A narrow black velvet 
collar encircled her small fair throat, (down which, as is 
related of fair Rosamond, I used to think one might see 
the red wine flow,) and the precise neck-kerchief was 
fastened with a fine diamond-pin. The fashion of this 
raiment was never varied by season or circumstance, except 
that, regularly on the thirty-first of October, the rich 
lustring was exchanged for a richer satin of the same 



BROAD SUMMERFORD. 127 

colour ; a black lace handkerchief was superadded to that 
of snowy lawn, and a pair of black velvet mittens, turned 
down with white satin, were drawn over the delicate 
hands and arms, not to be discarded till the thirty-first 
of May, drew forth the silvery lustring- from its retire- 
ment of lavender and roses, and consigned the warm satin 
to a five months' seclusion. 

It was marvellous to observe how Mrs Helen kept 
herself in print as she did ! From morning- to night, 
from week to week, from month to month, from year to 
year, always the same — always " mise aquatres epingles" 
as if she had just stepped out of a bandbox; the silk or 
satin unchanging- in hue or freshness — its lawn accompa- 
niments never contracting soil or wrinkle on their snowy 
smoothness — the neck-kerchief folded in exactly the same 
number of plaits by the Careful hand of that ancient abi- 
gail Mrs Betty, who would probably have been as much 
deroutee by any innovation of those laws of the Medes 
and Persians, as if her venerable mistress had commanded 
a ball-dress or a wedding-suit. Yes — one would have 
thought that the dear old lady had been kept in a band- 
box all ready for company, if her whole course of life had 
not, in fact, been one of most active, though quiet use- 
fulness — for Mrs Helen was never in a bustle. Neither 
was she uncomfortably precise about the preservation of 
this invariable neatness. Nay, I have seen the old grey 
parrot on her wrist or her shoulder, and the favourite 
tortoise-shell cat on her lap, often and often ; and the old 
lady took snuff too, and, spite of all, the unruffled purity 
of attire remained inviolate. The matter was a mystery 
to me, whose whole girlish life had hitherto been an out- 
trage to the laws of tidiness. 

But I must tell you something more of my first even- 
ing at Summerford Rectory. It was already evening, 



128 CHURCHYARDS CHAP. X. 

you remember, when I arrived there — about seven o'- 
clock of a sweet June evening-, when the old green calash 
drove up to the entrance court, and my venerable cousin 
lifted me down within its quiet precincts. The entrance 
gate was of filigree iron-work, breast high, between two 
low stone pillars, crowned with balls, but the walls were 
all evergreen — beautiful holly hedges, as finely kept as 
ever those at Sayes Court could have been in their day 
of perfection. This living wall, opening to the right and 
left in two bowery archways, leading to the offices and 
garden, formed three sides of the square court, the old 
mansion itself completing the fourth boundary — a very 
antique dwelling, with quarter-work of red brick, mellow- 
ed by time and weather to the richest and most har- 
monious colouring. The double gable (the same John 
Somers had pointed out to me from the hill-top) was 
surmounted on each pinnacle by stone balls similar to 
those on the entrance pillars. One was quite wound and 
matted over with ivy, of which only a few encroaching 
tendrils had as yet curled round the other ball ; but lower 
down a fine apricot covered a considerable portion of the 
wall with its skilfully trained branches; and a lovely 
honeysuckle (then in full bloom) had been allowed to 
occupy the remaining space, and almost to darken some 
of the windows with its picturesque festoons. The lat- 
ticed windows were set deep in heavy stone framework, 
and the massy doorway opened from a flight of four 
broad steps, on the uppermost of which, on either side, 
stood two tubs containing fine orange-trees. And there, 
as I told you, in the doorway between those two fragrant 
supporters, stood the dear old lady ; and after I had 
received the welcome of her gentle embrace, the brother 
and sister, taking each a hand, led me between them, 
through an airy entrance hall, into a small but lofty anti- 



BROAD STJMMERFORD. 129 

room, hung round with family portraits, and from thence 
into a large pleasant parlour, the common sitting room. 
A very pleasant cheerful room it was, with a fine wide 
bay window opposite the entrance, and on one side a 
sashed door, then standing open to a broad gravel walk, 
bordered on either side by beds of the choicest and 
sweetest flowers. The apartment contained no costly 
furniture, except a fine Indian folding screen of many 
leaves, and a valuable Japan cabinet, loaded with rare old 
china. The curtains were composed of white dimity, as 
well as the short petticoats of the settee and chairs. 
Those odd little chairs ! Methinks I see them now, with 
their oval backs, sloping down like falling shoulders into 
little fin-like arms, spread out with such an air of tender 
invitation ! And they held out no false promise. Modern 
luxury, recherche as it is, has nothing half so comfort- 
able among all its traps for loungers. I was soon placed 
in one of those delightful fauteuils by the side of my 
kind hostess, who established herself before the tea equi- 
page, all ready set on a small Pembroke table near the 
beautiful bay window. My travelling guardian, John 
Somers, (jealous of devolving upon others any of his 
accustomed services,) soon appeared with the silver-chased 
tea-kettle and lamp, which he set down on a small 
mahogany tripod, beside his venerable lady ; and it was 
pleasant to observe the almost reverential gratitude with 
which the faithful servant replied to the kind greeting of 
his aged mistress, and her thanks " for having brought 
their dear young cousin safe to Summerford rectory." 

The usual tea hour was long past on the evening of 
my arrival ; but for once the clockwork regularity of 
established custom was infringed, in kind consideration 
for the expected guest ; and Mrs Helen, anticipating that 
" the poor child would be half famished," had taken care 



130 CHURCHYARDS. — CHAP. X. 

that the tea-table should be far more abundantly pro- 
vided than with the four slices of wafer bread and butter, 
its customary allotment. In truth, the dear old lady had 
calculated with great foresight ; for I did such ample 
justice to her plain seed-cake, and made such consump- 
tion of her sweet home-made bread and butter, as must 
have infinitely relieved any apprehension she might have 
conceived at the first sight of the poor little sickly crea- 
ture of whom she had so benevolently taken charge. 
But, in fact, it must have been that the air of Broad 
Summerford wrought miracles. At home, for many 
preceding weeks, I had almost loathed the sight of food. 
Mr Seale and Mrs Helen soon drew me into familiar 
conversation ; and, by the time tea was over, I was 
prattling away to them with as much unrestraint as if I 
had been domesticated under their roof for a twelvemonth. 
But even before the tea equipage was removed, this ex- 
citement of animal spirits began to sink under bodily 
languor and extreme fatigue ; my eylids fell involuntarily, 
and the sentence I was uttering died away in an inarti- 
culate manner as my head dropt aside against Mrs Helen's 
shoulder. Half roused, however, by the gentle contact, 
I was just sensible that a kind arm encircled me, and a 
tender kiss was imprinted on my forehead, — that some- 
thing was said about ringing for Betty, for that " the poor 
dear child could riot sit up to prayers ;" and then the bell 
was pulled, (with what extraordinary acuteness the sound 
of a bell tingles in one's ears in that state of half slum- 
ber !) and Mrs Betty summoned ; and between her and 
her mistress I was somehow, with little exertion of my 
own, conducted up stairs into a bedchamber, undressed, 
and put to bed in a state of the most passive helplessness, 
— unconsciousness wellnigh, except that I was still ex- 
quisitely sensible of the luxury of sinking down on the 



BROAD SUMMERFORD. 131 

soft pillow between the smooth fine sheets, that smelled 
deliriously of lavender and roses. 

I recollect nothing* more till the next morning, (my 
eleven hours' nap had been a dreamless spell,) when I 
unclosed my eyes to the light of a bright summer sun, 
which streamed in between the white curtains of my bed, 
and to the emulative brightness and summer sunshine of 
Mrs Betty's comely countenance, who having looked over 
and arranged my wardrobe, and prepared every thing for my 
levee, stood waiting in patient silence the natural termina- 
tion of my unconscionable slumber, from which her gentle 
mistress, who had already looked in on me from her ad- 
joining dressing-room, had prohibited all attempt to waken 
me. " Let the poor dear have her sleep out," said the 
kind lady ; and there stood Mrs Betty a statue of silent 
obedience. 

At last, however, when it pleased me to awaken, that 
portly handmaid saluted me with a pleasant good-morrow, 
and the information, that if I pleased to rise and dress 
directly, I should still be in time for prayers, and " Mas- 
ter and Mistress's breakfast." So, between my own 
alacrity and her assistance, I was soon ready ; and then 
she showed me down to that large, pleasant sitting-room, 
from which, indeed, I had ascended the preceding even- 
ing, but in such a slumberous state, as to leave me no 
recollection of the way. Breakfast was ready laid, and 
Mrs Helen had just preceded me into the room, where 
sat her venerable brother, at the head of the breakfast- 
table, with the Bible open before him, in which he was 
marking out the morning chapters. 

Both my kind cousins greeted me with cordial affec- 
tion ; and Mr Seale, calling me towards him, while his 
sister rang the summons to their little household, said, 
" Come, and take your place by me, my dear child. I 



132 CHURCHYARDS. — CHAP. X. 

think, after to-day, I shall appoint you my clerk, for I 
know your good father has well qualified you for the 
office." 

Proud and happy girl was I to take my station beside 
that good old man, and on the morrow to assume my 
allotted office ; and though my voice faltered a little at 
the first responses, my father had made me a correct and 
articulate reader ; and from that day forth I officiated, to 
the entire satisfaction of my indulgent hearers, and with 
a very tolerable proportion of self-approval. 

Soon after breakfast, Mrs Helen took me with her 
through all the household departments, in every one of 
which good order and beautiful neatness shone apparent. 
Five servants composed the in-door establishment. Mr 
John and Mrs Betty having authority over the corps de 
cuisine, under the mild control of the higher powers ; for 
Mrs Helen, though reposing perfect confidence in her old 
and faithful servants, took an active share in the family 
arrangements, and no little pride indeed, in all the more 
refined and complex culinary arts — such as pickling, 
preserving, making wines and cordials, sweet waters and 
strong waters, pastry, and floating islands, and confec- 
tionary hedgehogs. In all the mysteries of distilling, the 
dear old lady was an adept. Rose, peach, almond, and 
orange flower, pennyroyal and peppermint waters, were 
ranged rank and file, in long-necked, squat bottles, on the 
still-room shelves, sufficient in quantity to flavour all the 
confectionary, and cure all the stomach-aches, in England. 
I believe, indeed, Mrs Helen did supply half the county ; 
so great was the reputation of her odoriferous stores, and 
so liberal her distribution of them. Certain it is, that 
the annual replenishment of the stock, was considered as 
much a matter of course by the lady and her assistant 
handmaid, as the summer reproduction of the grey lus- 



BROAD SUMMERFORD. 133 

tring, and its accompaniments ; but why, or on what 
principle Mrs Helen conceived it equally indispensable 
to concoct a certain yearly quantity of plague-water, I 
was never fully satisfied ; nor, indeed, did it ever come 
within my knowledge, that there were any applicants for 
that invaluable elixir, made after the recipe of " our late 
Queen, Henrietta Maria, of blessed memory," as set forth 
in crabbed tawny characters, in the old family receipt- 
book ; neither could I ever precisely ascertain, (though I 
had my own surmises on the subject,) what became of 
the quantity which periodically disappeared from the shelf, 
to be replaced by a fresh concoction. 

It were endless to enumerate the palsy-waters, balsams, 
tinctures, elixirs, electuaries, which occupied one depart- 
ment of the still-room, and almost profane to reveal the 
mysteries of that sacred chamber during the season of 
concoctions — mysteries as jealously guarded as those of 
the Bona Dea from the eyes of the uninitiated and 
ignorant. 

In after-days of complete naturalization in the family, 
I was privileged with les grandes et petites entrees, even 
of that generally prohibited closet ; and great was my 
delight in accompanying thither my venerable cousin, 
when her occupation lay within the spicery or confection- 
ary region, and in receiving her instructions in the arts 
she excelled in — those always excepted which related to 
the medicinal department ; for to my shame be it spoken, 
I derived infinitely more gratification from the pastime 
of sticking over blanc-mange hedge-hogs with almond 
bristles, than in compounding the most infallible oint- 
ment ; nor could I, with all deference to Mrs Helen's 
superior wisdom, ever go the length of agreeing, that her 
tincture of rhubarb was to the full as palatable as her fine, 
old, raisin wine, and her walnuts, preserved with sugar 



134 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. X. 

and senna, equally delicious with those guiltless of the 
latter ingredient. 

Among- the various concerns transacted in that notable 
chamber, one of the most important, that of breaking- up 
the loaves of double-refined sugar, was always superin- 
tended by Mrs Helen ; and on those occasions, with a 
fine, cambric handkerchief pinned on over her clear lawn 
apron, she assumed even an active share in the operation ; 
and I used to delight in watching the lady-like manner 
with which the clumsy nippers were managed by her 
pretty, little, pink fingers, and the quiet dexterity which 
supplied their deficiency of muscular strength. If Mrs 
Helen Seale had chosen, by way of variety, to twirl a 
mop, or handle a carpet-broom, she must have done it 
with the air and grace of a perfect gentlewoman. 

But you are impatient to know more of my first day 
at Summerford Rectory. It was full of delightful incident 
to me, though little or nothing to make a story out of. 
I have told you, how Mrs Helen took me her morning 
round through the still-room, the housekeeper's room, 
and various offices ; and then we visited the dairy.— Such 
a dairy ! such a paradise of milk, and cream, and butter, 
and curds, and whey, and cream cheeses, and crystal water, 
and purity, and fragrance I — for many bouquets of the 
sweetest flowers were dispersed among the glossy milk 
pans, and round the shallow reservoir of a marble slab in 
the centre of the octagon building ; on the polished surface 
of which, butter-pats, of many a fantastic shape, were 
curiously arranged, half floated by a constant supply of 
the purest and coldest water, conveyed thither from a 
neighbouring spring. From the dairy we passed into the 
poultry yard ; and there I was introduced to a train of 
milk-white turkeys, and fowls of the same colour, a few 
bantams, and three galenies, Mrs Helen's especial favour- 



BROAD SUMMERFORD. 135 

ites, though the perverse creatures could never be brought 
to submit to any of the regulations of the feathered esta- 
blishment, straying away over pales, walls, roofs, and 
barriers of every description, scratching up seed-beds and 
flower-borders, to the despair of the gardener, and laying 
their eggs on those, or on the bare gravel-walk, in 
flagrant dereliction of all fitness and propriety. 

Yet those irreclaimables were, as I told you, prime 
favourites with their order-loving mistress ; and I, who 
partook in some measure of their wild, and wandering, 
and untameable nature, very shortly became the object of 
her tender and unbounded indulgence ; though the dear 
lady's nice sense of decorum, and habitual placidity, were 
frequently startled into a gesture of amazement, and a 
hasty exclamation, at sight of her eleve swinging on the 
orchard gate — scrambling, like a cat, along the top of 
the garden wall — coming in knee-deep in mud, with a 
lap full of cresses from the water-meadow, or with a 
frock torn to tatters, in some lawless excursion over 
hedges and hurdles, when, as dear Mrs Helen mildly as- 
sured me, " the common roadway was so much shorter 
and pleasanter." 

It was some time, indeed, before I astounded the deco- 
rous inhabitants of the rectory with these feats of prowess* 
On my first arrival, I was far too weak and languid 'for 
such performances, even if I had not been restrained a 
while by natural shyness. But that soon yielded to the 
affectionate encouragement of my kind hosts ; and in a 
month's time, the pure air of Broad Summerford — gentle 
exercise in the old calash, in which Mr Seale took me a 
daily airing — simple but nourishing diet, and asses' milk, 
had so effectually restored my health, that my natural 
exuberance of animal spirits began to manifest itself, by 
the indications aforesaid, somewhat to the consternation 



136 CHURCHYARDS. — CHAP. X. 

of Mrs Helen, though she could not find in her heart to 
repress " the fine spirits of the poor dear child, so won- 
derfully recovered (under God's blessing-) by Summer- 
ford air, and her good management." 

So much for one " night's entertainment," as I have 
faithfully recorded it, from the well-remembered words of 
my dear historian. She shall resume the narrative in an 
ensuing chapter, for the benefit of all those who have 
patience with a subject which has neither invention, 
magic, adventure, sentiment, eccentricity, passion, love, 
murder, or metaphysics to recommend it — only Truth. 



BROAD SUMMEREORD. 137 



CHAPTER XL 

BROAD SUMMERFORD. « 

The history of one day at the rectory was an epitome 
of all ; and yet there was no monotony, no dulness, no 
gloom, no heavy flight of time, in that dear mansion. I 
never knew a tedious hour, during- my long sojourn of a 
full twelvemonth, within its hospitable walls ; and yet I 
had no companions of my own age — nor any indeed, ex- 
cept my two venerable relations, and the four-footed and 
feathered creatures, with whom I was always sure to con- 
tract speedy and familiar intimacy. 

In the morning I generally attended Mrs Seale in all 
her home avocations, and, when they were dispatched, 
not un frequently accompanied her on a round of charit- 
able visits in the adjoining village. Those early hours 
were usually passed by Mr Seale in his study ; and not- 
withstanding my vagabond propensities, I would not have 
forfeited the privilege of being allowed to read with him 
one daily hour in that pleasant, quiet room, (made deli- 
ciously sombre by the shade of a huge old jessamine 
which embowered the large bay window,) for all the 
temptations which lay in wait for me in garden, copse, or 
meadow. I have ever since delighted in the smell of 
jessamine and Russia leather, (strange association !) be- 
cause it immediately brings that dear, old-fashioned 
room, and its revered occupant, vividly before my mind's 
eye. 

We dined at two o'clock ; and, after a short nap in his 



138 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XI. 

great, high-backed, armed-chair, Mr Seale generally sal- 
lied forth on what he was wont to term his evening 
rounds through the hamlet, and among the more scattered 
and remote dwellings of his large parish — in every one 
of which he was a visiter, not less frequent than welcome 
and respected. He had a word in season for all: Of 
comfort — of encouragement — of ad vice- — of consolation — 
of remonstrance — of rebuke also, when occasion called for 
it ; and never did the good man (whatever pain it cost 
him) shrink behind motives of false humanity, from the 
strict performance of that imperative duty. Nor were 
the severe truths he uttered less awfully impressive, be- 
cause it was well known and felt, by every individual of 
his flock, that their benevolent pastor loved far better to 
dwell on the promises of the gospel, than on its terrible 
denunciations. 

But Mr Seale administered not only to the spiritual 
wants of his parishioners ; he also cared tenderly for their 
temporal necessities ; and having considerable knowledge 
of medicine, and being " intrusted," as he termed it, with 
a competent income, his means of doing good were mani- 
fold, and they were improved to the uttermost. Happy 
and proud was I, when the good old man, refreshed by 
his short siesta, entered the drawing-room with his hat 
on, his staff in hand, (just such a one, methinks, as Bishop 
Jewel's * trusty steed,) and a small basket containing 

* " As soon as he (Mr Hooker) was perfectly recovered from this 
sickness, he took a journey from Oxford to Exeter, to satisfy and see 
his good mother, being accompanied by a countryman, and companion 
of his own college, and both on foot, which was then either more in 
fashion, or want of money, or their humility, made it so : But on foot 
they went, and took Salisbury in their way, purposely to see the good 
Bishop, (Jewel,) who made Mr Hooker and his companion dine with 
him at his own table; which Mr Hooker boasted of with much joy and 
gratitude when he saw his mother and his friends. And at the Bishop's 



BROAD SUMMERFORD. 139 

medicines and cordials, which, with a smile of invitation, 
he invited his " little apprentice," as he called me, to 
carry for the old Doctor. 

Happy and proud was I to obey that cheerful sum- 
mons ; and powerful as were the attractions of meadow 
rambles, swinging upon gates, and scrambling over hedges 
and ditches, I was not to be lured abroad by any of those 
refined pastimes, while a chance existed, that, by sitting 
quietly beside Mrs Helen's embroidery-frame, I should 
be called upon to accompany the rector in his pastoral 
progress. Dear Mrs Helen never walked further than 
that part of the scattered hamlet immediately adjoining 
the rectory domain. I cannot fancy she could ever have 
taken a good long walk, as it is called. That small fine 
frame of hers, though perfectly organized, was surely 
composed of materials too delicate for robust exercise. 
Those little, little feet, looked as if they had never moved 
but on Persian carpets, or velvet grass-plats. They 
would hardly have disgraced a Chinese lady ; and among 
the curiosities contained in the Indian cabinet, was an em- 



parting with him, the Bishop gave him good counsel, and his benedic- 
tion, but forgot to give him money ; which, -when the Bishop had con- 
sidered, he sent a servant in all haste to call Richard back to him ; and 
at Richard's return, the Bishop said to him, ' Richard, I sent for you 
back, to lend you a horse which hath carried me many a mile, and, I 
thank God, with much ease ;' and presently delivered to him a walking 
staff, with which he professed he had travelled through many parts of 
Germany. And he said, ( Richard, I do not give, but lend you my 
horse : Be sure you be honest, and bring my horse back to me at your 
return this way to Oxford. And I do now give you ten groats to bear 
your charges to Exeter ; and here is ten groats more, which I charge 
you to deliver to your mother; and tell her, I send her a bishop's bene- 
diction with it, and beg the continuance of her prayers for me : And if 
you bring my horse back to me, I will give you ten groats more, to 
carry you on foot to the college. And so God bless you, good Rich- 
ard.' " 



140 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XI. 

broidered Chinese shoe, that did not match amiss with 
her little black-velvet slipper. I used to call her the 
" Fairy Graciosa." 

Our tea-time was six o'clock. In summer, the after- 
hours of daylight were commonly spent in a large, plea- 
sant alcove, terminating the broad garden-walk, to which 
Mrs Helen's footstool, her carpet work, or tambour- 
frame, were duly conveyed by John Somers. Then Mr 
Seale busied himself about his flower-borders, and I 
assisted him in the agreeable task so much to his satisfac- 
tion, that he was wont to call me his " neat-handed Phil- 
lis ;" and after some apprenticeship in the initiatory care 
of sweet-williams, clove pinks, and some such second-rate 
beauties, I was preferred to the high responsibility of 
securing the full buds of the rarest carnations, against 
the danger of premature and irregular bursting, and of 
tending and even watering the delicate auriculas, more 
sedulously guarded from every caprice of the elements 
than ever was Eastern princess, " the light of the Harem." 
If any weeds of vanity lurked in the good man's heart, 
they sprung surely from his passion for those favourite 
flowers ; and I have seen him stand for ten minutes at a 
time, entranced in admiration of a " Lovely Helen," or 
a " Powdered Beau ! " 

Those were verily right pleasant hours, when I followed 
my dear master from flower to flower, with the small 
green watering-pot, the slender sticks, and nicely shredded 
strings of fine wet bass. To this day, when busied in my 
own garden I have occasion to use the latter material, its 
peculiar smell gives me a strange, indescribable pleasure ; 
so strongly and invariably does it bring to my recollection 
that sweet garden of Broad Summerford rectory, and my 
two dear and indulgent companions. 

John Somers and twilight came together ; — the former 



BROAD SUMMERFORD. 141 

to re-convey to the house Mrs Helen's footstool and 
working apparatus ; the latter gently intimating to the 
venerable pair, that it was time for aged heads to seek 
shelter from the falling dews. It was very pleasing to 
observe the old-fashioned politeness and tender caution, 
with which Mr Seale supported on his own feeble arm 
the more infirm frame of his beloved companion, as they 
slowly retraced the flower-bordered walk towards their 
quiet dwelling, holding " sweet converse'' by the way, 
and lingering often — now in mutual admiration of some 
half-opened, dew-glittering rose — or to watch the antic 
circles of the bat — or to gaze upon the evening star — or 
to catch the last mellow notes of the blackbird's vesper 
hymn, or the deeper tone of the curfew from the neigh- 
bouring steeple. And if it was a moonlight evening, 
candles were not soon called for, on their re-entering the 
parlour. The old couple dearly loved to sit together at 
that beautiful bay window, in meditative and social — yes 
— social silence, contemplating the glorious uprising of 
the broad full moon, or the silvery brightness of her 
growing crescent, emerging from behind the dark mass 
of the old church tower, and " its embowering elms." 
Solemn and pleasant, doubtless, at such seasons, were the 
thoughts of those kindred hearts. 

Theirs, whose earthly race was so nearly run — whose 
hopes tended to the same goal — whose innocent lives had 
flown on in the same peaceful channel — and who trusted 
not to be divided in their deaths : — surely, though 
" speech nor language" were at such times interchanged, 
their hearts communed with each other, and with good 
spirits, ascending and descending from those starry heavens 
whereunto their aged eyes were so devoutly uplifted. 
Young and volatile as I was, I should have felt it little 
less than sacrilegious to interrupt that sacred silence. I 



142 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XI. 

too loved well to sit silent and unobserved in my dark 
corner, contemplating, with affectionate reverence, that 
beautiful picture of happy old age. 

As the days shortened, we had some reading- in the 
evening : — History, sacred and profane — Voyages — Tra- 
vels — Biography — and Sir Charles Grandison And Mr 

Seale and Mrs Helen often played a match at backgam- 
mon before supper. That was brought in at half-past 
nine precisely ; and soon after ten the Christian house- 
hold once more re-assembled round their reverend and 
revered master, to conclude the day as they had com- 
menced it, with thanksgiving, prayer, and adoration. 

Such was the history of one day at Broad Summer- 
ford. And I have already told you, that one was the 
epitome of all, with very slight variations — such as the 
occasional calls of friends or neighbours ; for though the 
aged lady of the rectory paid no visits herself, many 
courted and sought her society, ever sure of a kind and 
cordial welcome. And Mr Seale now and then brought 
home a dinner guest unceremoniously invited in his morn- 
ing ramble ; and once or twice in the year, Mrs Helen 
collected together a rather numerous evening assembly, 
formally convened at a fortnight's notice, by regular in- 
vitation cards, to obtain which there was as much emu- 
lation (though certainly less intriguing) as if the dear old 
lady had been a distinguished leader of haut ton, and her 
party the first opening of a fashionable campaign. And 
in the surrounding neighbourhood of Broad Summerford, 
there was no lack of the great, the gay, and the fashion- 
able ; and yet none but thought themselves honoured by 
an invitation to the rectory. Perhaps, too, the mere 
charm of novelty had its full share of attraction for some 
of those modish guests, whose habitual listlessness might 
have found a temporary interest and excitement in the 



BROAD SI3MMEHFORD. 143 

strong contrast opposed by the warm-hearted simplicity 
within those quiet walls, to the artificial heartlessness 
which characterized their own circles. 

Be that as it may, it rarely happened that any answer 
but a ready acceptance was returned for one of Mrs 
Helen's invitation cards ; and the party, once invited 
and arranged, then sounded great note of preparation. 
And then was Mrs Betty in her glory ! to say nothing of 
her less bustling and important, though not less active 
lady. Then began such compounding of seed-cakes, and 
pound-cakes, and plain-cakes, and wafers, and crumpets, 
and all sorts of indescribable accompaniments, as might 
have set out half-a-dozen confectioners' shops. And then 
— for those were the good old times of suppers, and hot 
suppers — there was such stuffing of turkey poults — such 
larding of capons — such collaring of eels — such potting 
of savoury meats — such whipping of syllabubs — such 
spinning of sugar — such powdering with comfits — such 
devices, and surprises, and " subtleties,'' (almond hedge- 
hogs, and floating islands included,) as Mrs Glass herself 
might have been proud to have had a hand in. 

During that whole week of preparation, the approach 
to the rectory was like that to on% of the Spice islands. 
All round the house, the perfume of lilacs and seringas 
(if they were in flower) was fairly overpowered by the 
exotic odours of mace and cinnamon ; and I used to con- 
ceit — dans mon petit moi-meme — that the persons of Mrs 
Helen, and her faithful Betty, must have been half em- 
balmed, by the time their labours were over in that nest 
of spicery. 

You are not, however, to infer, that the quiet and ele- 
gant routine of domestic regulations was at all infringed 
upon by these extraneous proceedings ; that any thing 
like vulgar bustle, or parvenu anxiety, marked the grand 



144 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XI. 

reception-day ; or that Mrs Helen's serene self-posses- 
sion was in any way affected by the expectation or arrival 
of her guests. She was too perfectly the gentlewoman 
to feel any such underbred trepidations ; and her true 
politeness — the courtesy of the heart — gave to her whole 
deportment such natural gracefulness, as could never 
have been imparted by the finest artificial polish. Be- 
sides, every thing was in good taste, and in perfect keep- 
ing, throughout the whole modest establishment. No 
attempt — no pretension — no display — no cold best rooms, 
to be thrown open for its one grand day of annual exhi- 
bition — no sumptuous carpets to be uncovered — no cold, 
glazy cushions to be uncased — no costly gilding to be 
unpapered — no swathed-up curtains to be unswathed — 
no ornamental trumpery to be arranged with elaborate 
carelessness — no unusual decoration to be remarked in the 
large, comfortable, constantly-used drawing-room, except 
that the green dragon beau-pots were filled with some of 
Mr Seale's choicest flowers, never cut by the dear old 
man but on such special occasions — ostensibly as an offer- 
ing to Mrs Helen ; but having hinted as his besetting 
sin — his floral vanity — I may just venture the surmise, 
that his liberality was*not purely disinterested, and that 
a cynical eye might have detected original sin in the de- 
light which beamed in his mild countenance, when the 
beautiful bouquets, near which he was sure to post 
himself, drew forth admiring exclamations from the 
courteous bystanders, and humble petitions for slips and 
cuttings at the proper season. 

Nothing could exceed the tone of elegant propriety — 
of perfect respectability — which pervaded the whole 
establishment. Old John Somers, with his silvery hair, 
and suit of sober grey, followed by his attendant page in 
the same livery, moved about with all the conscious dig-- 



BROAD SUMMERFOKD. 145 

nity of long and faithful servitude, bearing* round the 
circle such tea and coffee, in such china as was not often 
to be met with, on a noble silver salver, richly chased 
and emblazoned, like all the family plate, of which there 
was abundance in common use ; and the smooth-headed, 
rosy-cheeked lad, who trode closely behind with his tray 
of cates, was remarked, by many a smiling observer, to 
copy, with very successful mimicry, his great-uncle's 
gravity of deportment — for the aged domestic and his 
youthful assistant stood in that near relation to each 
other. 

No parade of further attendance was ever made on 
these company occasions. There was no conscription — 
no forced levy from the farm-yard and stable. The gar- 
dener and the cow-boy were not stuffed into spare liveries 
made to fit all sizes, and stuck up like scarecrows in the 
entrance-hall, or shoved into the drawing-room to poke 
forward refreshments with great red hands like lobsters' 
claws, and bony wrists protruding half a yard beyond the 
livery cuffs, to slide scalding coffee into ladies' laps, over- 
set the' candles, whisk their coat-flaps in the fire, and 
tread upon the tail of the old tortoise-shell ; who, for her 
part, dear old Matty ! occupied her wonted place on the 
hearth-rug in undisturbed serenity, evincing no emotion 
at the presence of company, or indeed any notice of the 
assembled guests, except by unbuttoning her eyes a very 
little wider, and purring a note or two louder, when either 
of them stooped down to court Mrs Helen's favourite, by 
smoothing her velvet coat. 

On one of those gala days, just before the arrival of 
the expected guests, I was the unlucky means of ruffling 
the composure of my dear old friend and protectress, 
more than I had ever seen it affected by any outward 
circumstance. I have hinted to you that my toilet duties 

K 



146 CHURCHYARDS. — CHAP. XI. 

and the concerns of my wardrobe were not always at- 
tended to with the scrupulous neatness I ought to have 
observed in those matters. I had been the companion 
and playmate of boys — of my brothers only — and the 
association had, naturally enough, moulded my tastes 
and habits more in conformity with theirs than was quite 
consonant with feminine propriety. Hence those un- 
couth pastimes to which I have confessed myself addicted ; 
and the natural result of such exploits was the dilapidated 
state of a wardrobe from which it would have been diffi- 
cult to select an upper garment in perfect preservation. 
And as the requisite repairs ostensibly devolved on me, 
and I abominated needlework, the general condition of 
the whole may be more easily conceived than described. 
On this especial evening I had been tenderly admonished 
to take timely care that my dress was whole and neat, not 
distinguished by appalling rents or disgraceful tuckings 
up ; that it should be put on properly, that is, in good 
time, so as to be drawn equally over both shoulders, not 
dragged on in such hurry and bustle as to send me forth 
into the drawing-room all flushed and fluttered, and 
" frightened out of that fair propriety" which Mrs Helen 
so justly deemed indispensable to the carriage of a gentle- 
woman. Mrs Betty had, moreover, received private 
injunctions to superintend my toilet, and send me down 
" fit to be seen/' But, alas! it so happened that about 
the time that respectable personage sought me, in pursu- 
ance of her lady's directions, I had rambled away into 
the adjoining hazel copse, and was too busily engaged in 
hooking down the bright brown clusters of ripe nuts, to 
remember Mrs Helen's solemn injunctions ; and when at 
last they started into my mind, and I scrambled and 
scampered back into the house, and up to my own cham- 
ber, Mrs Betty's attention had been attracted to other 



BROAD SUMMERFORD. 147 

weighty concerns, and I performed the ceremony of the 
toilet uncontrolled by her judicious censorship; and a pretty 
toilet I made of it ! — a brief one, certainly — and I also 
reached the drawing-room in excellent good time, long be- 
fore the arrival of company. Lucky was it that I did so — 
lucky for my own credit and the restoration of Mrs Helen's 
elegant composure, which received an indescribable shock 
at my first awful appearance, still panting and breathless 
with my race home, and the bustle of changing my dress 
— arms, neck, and face crimsoned over, and shining to 
boot from the effects of a rough and hasty ablution in 
soap and water; which elegant cosmetic had by no means, 
however, contributed to efface or disguise sundry marks 
and scratches, (one happily conspicuous across the bridge 
of my nose,) inflicted by certain intercepting boughs and 
branches, with which I had too rashly encountered, in my 
reckless return through the hazel copse. Then the best 
frock was dragged on, to be sure — but not over both 
shoulders ; and its clear texture too plainly revealed cer- 
tain ghastly rents and fractures in the under garment, 
the tucks of which being all unripped on one side, lowered 
it to the very ground in careless festoons. I had consi- 
dered the tedious operation of changing stockings quite 
a work of supererogation, and that I did very handsomely, 
in cramming my thick cotton ones, mud and all, into a 
pretty little pair of black satin slippers, the becomingness 
of which I was by no means insensible to. 

Such was the apparition which presented itself to Mrs 
Helen's delicate perceptions, as I entered her presence, 
dragging on, or rather pulling up, a pair of once white 
gloves, the size of jack-boots, through the thumbs and 
fingers of which, all gaping and curling back like the 
capsules of overblown flowers, my red thumbs and fingers 
protruded like ripe capsicums. 



148 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XI. 

Mrs Helen's first instinctive act was to pull the bell, 
as she had never pulled it but once before, when her own 
cap had taken fire. Now, as then, the whole household 
came running- at the unaccustomed summons, but re- 
spectfully drew back, and made way for Mrs Betty's 
approach, when once aware that their lady was neither 
on fire nor in a 6t, and only unusually vehement in re- 
quiring- the attendance of her faithful handmaiden. 

" Oh ! my good heavens, Betty ! " ejaculated the dear 
old lady, in her imperfect English, (she was not a native 
of this island.) " Look at this child ! look what she has 
done with herself — Bon Dieu 1 quelle horreur ! But 
quick — quick — we must make something with her before 
the company come — La pauvre enfant!" 

And they did try their best to make " something " of 
me. I was hurried into Mrs Helen's dressingroom, and 
there she and the dismayed Betty set to work to rectify 
the incongruities of my dress at least. The scratched 
and scarlet face and neck were past mending for one 
while ; and, truth to tell, only glowed and glistened the 
more fiercely for Mrs Helen's tender application of rose- 
water and milk of roses. But the muslin frock was pro- 
perly arranged over a whole under- garment. The muddy 
cotton stockings were exchanged for silk ones, an ex- 
change which, once effected, I entirely approved of. A 
drawer of beautiful perfumed French gloves was pulled 
open, and a delicate pair, nicely fitted to my unworthy 
hands, the form and size of which, however, did not 
absolutely disgrace them ; and as to the colour, that was 
of my own acquiring, and I was solemnly enjoined not 
to unglove it till it had subsided to a more ladylike 
complexion. The face and neck were not to be concealed 
or mended ; and when we were once more in the drawing- 
room, my dear good cousin could not help reviewing me 



BROAD SUMMERFORD. 149 

with looks in which a little vexation was still discernible, 
as she once or twice murmured to herself — ei La pauvre 
enfant ! " 

Even that gentle ejaculation was thought too severe a 
rebuke by Mr Seale, who comforted me under the inflic- 
tion, and pledged himself to Mrs Helen that I should be 
quite fit to be seen in ten minutes, and that I would 
never again transgress in like manner. 

That night, while I was preparing for bed, thinking 
over my late inattention to Mrs Helen's injunctions, and 
her indulgent gentleness, I could not help asking her 
ancient abigail, who was assisting me to undress, whe- 
ther, in the whole course of her long service of five-and- 
forty years, she ever remembered to have seen her lady 
really out of temper ? I could not ask if she had ever 
seen her in a' passion. That was as much out of the 
scale of possibilities as it would have been for a lamb to 
roar like a lion, or a turtle-dove to exchange natures 
with a hawk. But Mrs Betty quite astounded me with 
her prompt reply, — " Oh, yes, miss I my mistress did 
once put herself into a fearful passion, at least my master 
said so, though for my part, I should never have found it 
out ; and except that once, I never saw her so much 
vexed and disturbed as she was with you this evening ; 
and you know, miss " 

" Oh ! Mrs Betty, I know well enough how much I 
deserved a hearty scolding, and yet my dear cousin could 
not summon up so much as a frown to testify her dis- 
pleasure. She in a passion ! Dear Mrs Betty, tell me 
all about it, I beseech you." 

" Why, miss, you must know then, if there is one 
thing my mistress takes more pride in than another, it is 
that fine, old, rare china on the top of the commode in 
her dressing-room ; but the finest piece of all is gone 



I 50 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XI. 

now — a large green jar that had belonged to her mother, 
and my mistress prized it dearly for that reason, and was 
so careful of it that she never suffered any one — not me 
even — to dust or touch it, or any thing else on that 
commode. Cicely is a good, steady, careful girl now, 
(you know Cicely, miss,) but she came to us a sad, giddy, 
careless, tearing young thing at first, about twenty years 
ago, and my mistress soon saw what a desperate hand 
she was at whisking and flicking about her duster ; so 
she gave her double charges never so much as to go near 
any of the china, particularly that on the commode. 
Well, the careless wench must needs meddle with it, for 
all my mistress's warning ; and one unlucky day, sure 
enough, down she whisked that beautiful green jar, and 
it was smashed all to pieces. My mistress heard the 
crash, and up stairs she was in a minute, and there stood 
Cicely, looking sheepish enough to be sure, and the jar 
all to particles at her feet. Well, miss, if you'll believe 
it, the tears came into my mistress's eyes, and, ' Oh!' 
says she, ' my dear mother's jar !' And then, to be sure> 
she did colour up over her very forehead, and spoke 
quicker than I have ever heard her before or since. * Upon 
my word,' says she, * this is too bad, after all my biddings. 

Go, go, you naughty, careless girl, and don't let me ' 

" She was going on, speaking very quick, but my 
master, who had followed her up into the room, came 
and took her hand, and motioning Cicely to go down 
stairs, (she did not wait for second orders, the careless 
hussy,) he led my dear mistress to the settee, and then, 
for all he kissed her kindly, and comforted her for the 
loss of their mother's favourite jar, he read her such a 
lecture about the sinfulness of giving way to such violent 
passions, as soon set her a-crying in good earnest, a dear 
sweet soul ! and me, too, to keep her company; though, 



BROAD SUMMERFORD. 151 

for my life, I could not see any such great wickedness in 
the few words she had spoken, and that hussy's careless- 
ness was enough to provoke a saint. But my dear mistress 
did not for a long time give over reproaching herself for 
having, as she said, given way to such unchristian vio- 
lence of temper, and she went so far as to demean herself 
to that idle wench that had done all the mischief, and 
told her she was very sorry to have spoken so hastily, 
6 however blameable it was in you, Cicely,' says she ' to 
disobey my orders ; but I hope it will be a warning to 
you to be more careful in future, and above all, to avoid 
the fault of which I have been so unfortunate as to set 
you an example.' Lord bless her ! we should all be angels 
upon earth if we could but follow the example she sets 
us ; and I believe, o' my conscience, Cicely has been a 
steadier and a better girl from that very day, for she said, 
to be sure she minded my dear mistress's mild words 
more than a hundred scoldings." 

I hardly knew whether to laugh or cry at Mrs Betty's 
fragment of secret history ; but I felt that every thing I 
heard about my dear excellent relations, increased my 
love and respect for them. Another little discovery, 
illustrative of Mrs Helen's character, affected me far more 
seriously — almost painfully — soon after my arrival at 
the rectory. In the bedchamber assigned to me, which, 
as I told you, communicated with Mrs Seale's dressing- 
room, besides the wardrobe and drawers allotted to my 
use, stood a second chest, containing, as Mrs Betty noti- 
fied to me, table and bed-linen, and sundry other things, 
which she would remove if I required additional room. I 
had much more than sufficient to contain all my pos- 
sessions ; but disorder requires perpetually expanding 
elbow-room, and it reigned paramount over my wardrobe, 
till at last all my own drawers being in a chaotic state of 



152 CHURCHYARDS. — CHAP. XI. 

repletion, I resorted to those over which my right ex- 
tended not, to lay by some article of dress on which I 
was disposed to bestow more than common care. I pulled 
open the first drawer of that same chest, then, and there 
lay before me not the smooth, flat-folded damask, or 
glossy bed-linen, on which I expected to have found 
room to deposit my own dress, but one long, white, glazy 
garment, all frilled, and trimmed, and pinked, and scol- 
loped about, in a strange uncouth fashion, such as I had 
never seen before ; and yet in a moment — almost at the 
first glance — I had an instinctive shuddering conscious- 
ness of its destined appropriation ; and I was standing mo- 
tionless before the open drawer, gazing on its contents with 
eyes half-blinded by tears, but from which no tears fell, 
when Mrs Betty entered the room, and startled me by 
her hasty exclamation — " Oh, miss ! what are you looking 
at ? " she cried. " I thought that drawer was locked. My 
mistress desired I would take particular care it was while 
you slept in the room ; but I suppose I took out the key 
without turning it, and you see what she has made ready 
and laid there with her own dear hands." 

I asked no question at that minute — indeed there was 
nothing to ask. That visible proof of solemn preparation 
was all-eloquent, and I continued gazing upon it with 
such heart-struck awe, as if the dear and venerable form 
it was one day to attire, had been already shrouded in its 
chilly folds. Language has no words to express that 
exquisitely painful sensation, that agony of intense feel- 
ing, which seems to contract and compress the heart, and 
arrest its pulsation, under the sudden operation of some 
distressful cause — and then the frightful violence of its 
restored action I — its seemingly audible throbs I — the 
abrupt sob that bursts forth, saving it as it were from break- 
ing ; — the hysterical choking I — the inarticulate attempt 



BROAD SUMMERFORD. 153 

to speak ! — I remember how I struggled with it all on 
that occasion, which was not (as some might hastily con- 
ceive) an inadequate cause for such painful excitement. 
It was the first time that Death had been brought home 
to me ; that his insignia had appalled my sight ; that his 
reality had impressed upon my heart its ever-afterwards 
indelible signet. And now the certainty of the inevitable 
doom burst on me, as if it were immediately to fall on 
those I loved so dearly — and I wondered at my past se- 
curity, and thought with a cold shudder of the great ages 
of those beloved friends — of the advanced years of my 
own dear parents — and then I longed, with an agony of 
tender impatience, to draw them all close round me to- 
gether ; or rather, that I would encircle them all in one 
close embrace, never more to lose sight of them for one 
single minute, of those poor numbered few, yet remaining, 
of their stay upon earth. 

The anticipation of my own equally irreversible doom, 
had no share in that painful tumult of feeling. It is sel- 
dom, I believe, that the awful conviction of our own 
mortality impresses itself forcibly on the heart, while we 
are still buoyant with youth and health, and unbroken 
spirits, and unchastised expectations, and untarnished 
hopes. The paroxysms of youthful grief resemble the 
hail-storm, or the thunder-shower, which does not satu- 
rate the earth though it defaces its fair surface for a 
season, beating down the delicate flowers and the tender 
herbage. Deeper, far deeper, penetrates the small, con- 
tinued rain — palsying, if ungenially cold, the very heart 
of vegetation ; and so do the cares, and doubts, and dis- 
appointments, and troubles of advancing life, sink deep 
and deeper into the human heart, till its fine springs are 
broken, its beautiful illusions destroyed, its enthusiastic 
warmth extinguished ; and then indeed comes the sen- 



154 CHURCHYARDS. — -CHAP. XI. 

sible conviction of our own mortality, and that we are 
hastening- down a perceptibly rapid declivity, to " the 
house appointed for all living." 

How wisely and mercifully is it ordained, that we 
should acquire thus gradually this solemn conviction ! — 
In early life, while all is well with us, we generally con- 
nect too inseparably the images of Death and the Grave ; 
but, as we approach nearer that final earthly home, a 
further prospect opens more distinctly on the Christian's 
eye ; and though the destroying angel stands in the nar- 
row passage, and we behold him even in all his revealed 
terrors, his dark pinions cannot intercept from our steady 
gaze that effulgence of glory which overpowers, with the 
brightness of its promise, our natural shrinking from the 
fearful things which intervene — from the array of Dis- 
solution — the Shroud — the Coffin — and the Grave. 

Besides, the weary traveller is content to lie down and 
be at rest. He whose journey is all before him, scarce 
heeding the sage warnings of experienced pilgrims, 
fancies that he at least shall be more fortunate, — that he 
shall discover wells of water and pleasant places, which 
they missed in their way over the desert ; or, rather, he 
fancies that " the land is a good land," — that they have 
misnamed it a wilderness ; and at all events, that there is 
much time before him, (though they call it brief,) — that 
the end is far distant — and he has not learnt to contem- 
plate, much less to covet the repose of the grave. He 
believes in, but he does not feel, his own mortality — no, 
not even when that of his dearest friends is pressed home 
upon his heart, with that startling force and evidence of 
truth which so painfully affected me when I chanced on 
the discovery of Mrs Helen's solemn preparations. I 
could not recover myself that whole day, nor look at my 
dear cousin without a strange, choking sensation, and my 



BROAD SUMMERFORD. 155 

eyes filling- with tears ; and, at last, when the dear old 
lady noticed my unusual quietness, and questioned me, 
with kind anxiousness in her gentle voice, whether I was 
ailing or fatigued — the pent-up sorrow fairly got the better 
of me, and I clasped her round the neck, sobbing as if 
my heart would break, to my own unspeakable relief, and 
proportionate surprise and alarm on her part. But after 
much tender enquiry, and many soothing caresses, my 
hysterical affection, as Mrs Helen termed it, was set 
down to the effects of over-fatigue, and exhausted spirits, 
and a restorative cordial was prescribed for me, (not the 
infallible Plague-water,) and a comfortable posset was 
prepared for my supper, and I was dismissed early to 
bed, with many a tender kiss and affectionate injunction 
to sleep well, and not exhaust myself in future with over 
activity and violent exercise. 

On entering my chamber, I looked as fearfully askance 
towards the chest of drawers, as if I had expected that 
some ghastly phantom would occupy its place ; and, before 
I began to undress, satisfied myself that Mrs Betty had 
been true to her promise of locking fast that terrible repo- 
sitory, and taking away the key, as if, by so securing 
the object which had caused me such an unexpected shock, 
I could also exclude from my mind the images that shock 
had awakened. But the phantom was not laid so easily. 
That chest of drawers was to me like the mysterious box, 
immovably fixed in a corner of the merchant Abudah's 
chamber. I never looked towards it without something 
of distressful feeling ; and I never became so familiarized 
with the idea of its contents, as to place on it, as I had 
been accustomed to do, my work-box, my flower-glass, 
or any other of my goods and chattels. 

There was no assumption of singularity, or of superior 
strength of mind, in Mrs Helen's funeral preparations. 



156 CHURCHYARDS. — CHAP. XI. 

She would have concealed them, had it been possible, 
even from her faithful attendant ; and when the latter 
tenderly remonstrated with her on the subject, she ob- 
served with a cheerful and cheering smile, " It will not 
kill me one minute the sooner, my good Betty ; and, when 
the time comes, all will be ready, without much trouble 
for any body." 

Besides, the custom of providing burial-clothes was 
still very prevalent in Mrs Seale's time, among the many 
primitive customs of her native land. Of these, all that 
would bear transplanting, she had imported to Broad 
Summerford some fifty years before, when she had accom- 
panied her brother thither, on his taking possession of 
the rectory. Yes, for full fifty years that brother and 
sister had " dwelt together in unity," in that same quiet 
mansion ; — " lovely and inseparable in their lives," indeed, 
but in their deaths not to be united. Not in the grave, 
at least. Who can doubt that they are so, and for eternity, 
in their Father's kingdom ? 

But this has been a long gossip ; and I reserve for 
another day my remaining store of reminiscences from 
this fragment of the family chronicle. 



BROAD SUMMERFORD. 157 



CHAPTER XII. 



BROAD SUMMERFORD. 



I do believe, continued the faithful historian, that in 
the whole course of her life, Mrs Helen Seale had never 
conceived (much less indulged) but one -purely selfish 
wish. That one-, however, was so earnest, that, inasmuch 
as was consistent with the most unreserved submission 
to the will of Providence, she made it her humble and 
frequent prayer, that it might please God to take her to 
himself, before her beloved brother was called to rest from 
his labours. It was a natural — almost a blameless wish. 
The shrinking- of a tender and timid spirit, from the pro- 
spect of being left to solitary decay under the burden of 
accumulating infirmities, and the fond, though perhaps 
irrational desire, that the earthly remains of her beloved 
companion and her own might mingle together in the 
same grave. 

She was well aware, that if Mr Seale departed first, 
the poor remnant of her days must find an asylum far 
from Summerford ; and it was her maxim (adapted to the 
subject of interment) that " where the tree falls, there it 
should lie." So she earnestly prayed to God to take her 
first, if it was his good pleasure to do so. 

And Mr Seale, with like perfect submission to the 
Divine will, whatever its decree, made it his prayer also, 
that his beloved companion might be taken first. Oh ! 
how affecting was that wish — how beautifully disinte- 
rested ! But he reflected truly, that it mattered little how 



158 CHURCHYARDS. — CHAP. XII. 

dark — how cheerless — how companionless (humanly 
speaking-) might be the last mile of a long journey, pro- 
vided the lights of Home are fixedly in view, and the 
traveller confidently expects to find there, already safe in 
harbour, the beloved ones who have outstripped him on 
the way. 

But to leave one behind — one dear desolate being, in- 
firm and helpless, to tread alone that last dreary portion 
of life's pilgrimage ! It was a momentary pang, repressed 
as soon as felt ; but that thought entered like iron into 
the brother's soul, as sometimes, while apparently absorbed 
in his book, he gazed with moistened eyes, from under 
his overshadowing hand, on the gentle, fragile creature 
whom he had cherished and protected for so many years, 
with a love " passing the love of woman." At such 
moments, his mental ejaculation was — " Take her first, 
oh God ! if it seem good unto thee." The brother and 
sister were not ignorant of their mutual wish. They had 
no secrets for each other — no reservation of false tender- 
ness — no mistaken averseness to talk together freely and 
frequently of their approaching earthly separation. But 
that was only spoken of with serious brevity, with inter- 
changed looks, and clasping hands, expressive of mutual 
encouragement ; and then they discoursed, long — fully — 
fondly — almost rapturously, of their sure and certain 
reunion in that Good Land, where there shall be no more 
tears — no more parting — no more sin — no more sorrow. 

But though the prayer of the righteous doth most 
assuredly ascend up into Heaven, and find favour with 
his Maker, it followeth not, therefore, that the All- Wise, 
who judgeth not as man judgetb, may see fit to grant the 
petition. He often grants in wrath, and denies in mercy 
— contents the unreasonable, or perverse, or impious wish, 
and disappoints the blameless and humble desire of the 



BROAD SUMMERFORD. 159 

pure and pious heart. To the eye of faith His ways are 
sufficiently justified, even in this world ; and at the con- 
summation of all things, we shall understand, as well as 
acknowledge, their infinite perfection. 

It was not the good pleasure of their heavenly Father, 
that the aged pair at Summerford rectory should depart 
thence to their better habitation, in the order that might 
have seemed happiest for them, to human judgment. 
The gentlest, the weakest, the most infirm, the most 
helpless, was left behind, to superficial observation, alone 
and desolate. The beloved brother, the tender companion, 
the faithful comforter, the life-long friend, was called 
first to his reward ; and when the hour of parting actually 
arrived, both felt — the departing Christian and she who 
had so little while to tarry after him — that a strong arm 
was around them in their trial, and that it was indeed a 
matter of small moment, which first overstepped the 
threshold of eternity. There were after moments in store 
for the bereaved survivor (and she knew it well) of 
natural weakness — of inexpressible anguish — of conscious 
desolation ; but the anticipation of those troubled not the 
almost divine composure which irradiated her meek 
countenance, as she partook with her expiring brother of 
those consecrated elements, which she had so often 
received from his own hands, at the altar of that church 
wherein he had ministered so long, and so faithfully. 

There was not a dry eye among the many hundred 
persons assembled in and about the churchyard of Broad 
Summerford, on the day of Mr Seale's funeral — not a dry 
eye throughout the whole assemblage, except those of the 
venerable greyhaired man immediately following the two 
gentlemen who attended as chief mourners. He walked 
quite alone — bowed down with the burden of threescore 
years and ten, and of a sorrow which sought no vent in 



160 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XII. 

outward demonstration. His hand had helped to arrange 
the pall over the coffin of his dead master. His arm (as 
the corpse was carried through the door-way) had been 
stretched forward with cautionary gesture — for word he 
spake not — as if to guard the insensible burden from rude 
or sudden contact; and his dim eyes were never for a 
moment diverted from that last object of his earthly care, 
till it was laid in its appointed house, and the cords were 
withdrawn from beneath the coffin, and the earth rattled 
on its lid, and had covered up for ever from mortal sight, 
all of the departed saint over which the grave was per- 
mitted to assert its victory. Then, as having fulfilled his 
office even unto the end, John Somers raised his eyes 
from earth to heaven, his lips quivering with a few words 
of inward ejaculation, and turning slowly from the brink 
of the grave — and yet pausing to look back on it, with 
an expression that seemed to say, " Why may I not now 
lie down beside my master ?." — he shook his head as it 
declined upon his breast ; and so, silently acknowledging 
the kind but unavailing sympathy of the many who would 
have pressed about him with well-meant officiousness, he 
passed on quietly through the hushed assemblage, and 
laying his hand on the ready shoulder of his young grand- 
nephew, slowly and feebly retraced his steps towards the 
rectory, and up to his own chamber, and taking his bed 
almost immediately, he arose thence no more — till, at the 
end of a few weeks — having received the grateful fare- 
well of his aged mistress — for whose service, had it been 
permitted, he would still have consented to live a little 
longer — he also was borne along the churchyard path, 
and interred in the same grave with his revered master. 

Such had been Mr Seale's testamentary request, in case 
his old servant (who had been long declining) should 
end his days at Summerford. He also gave directions 



BROAD SUMMERFORD. 161 

respecting the memorial stone, which should mark out the 
place of their joint sepulchre ; and it may be seen to this 
day under the shade of a broad maple, which stands in 
the east corner of Summerford churchyard — a plain thick 
slab of grey marble — on which it is simply recorded, that 

UNDERNEATH 

LIETH THE BODY 

OF 

THE REV. JOHN SEALE, 

AGED 83 TEARS, 

(52 OF WHICH HE HAD BEEN MINISTER TO THAT PARISH ',) 

AND OF HIS FAITHFUL SERVANT, 

JOHN SOMERS, 

AGED 81 YEARS. 

Amidst the incessant fluctuation of human affairs, of 
those especially characterizing- the state of society in our 
own country, there are few circumstances more generally 
affecting than the departure of a widow from her hus- 
band's house. Even under the most favourable aspect — 
when she departs in ease and affluence — voluntarily de- 
parts — voluntarily, at the suggestion of her own judg- 
ment, resigns the home of which she has been so long 
sole mistress, into the rule of a tender son, and of a 
daughter-in-law scarcely less dutiful than Ruth — both of 
whom would fain detain her, to be, with her wisdom and 
her grey hairs, the crown and glory of their household — 
even under circumstances so favoured, it cannot be but 
that the woman most firm of purpose, must feel (if she 
have common sensibility) some natural yearning, some 
momentary pang, when she looks back on that abode, to 
which, in the prime of her youth and beauty, she was 
led a young and happy bride — where her children first 
saw the light, and grew up like olive branches about their 
parents' table — and going forth into the world, returned 

L 



162 CHURCHYARDS. — CHAP. XII. 

and returned again to the blessed reunion of the domestic 
circle — where she bore mild rule over her household, 
setting- it the pattern of her own pure and virtuous life — 
where no poor man ever turned unrelieved from her gate, 
and no neighbour unwelcomed from her hospitable door 
— and where, above all, she has shared with the partner 
of her life their common cup of hopes and fears, of joy 
and sorrow, of fruition and disappointment — where they 
had grown grey together, encouraging one another in 
the down-hill way — till at last the fiat of separation 
came — and, with a woman's devotedness, she had re- 
ceived the departing breath, and closed the expiring eye. 
All these, and innumerable other affecting recollec- 
tions, must crowd together into the widow's heart, when 
she looks back upon that home which she shall no more 
re-enter but as a temporary guest. But when her depar~ 
ture is not voluntary — when her dwelling devolves to 
strangers, or to distant kindred, and therefore she must 
leave it — or to a heartless son, who, to the prayer of 
" the asking eye," answereth not " abide with us, my 
mother," and therefore she must leave it — or when 
(being attached to church preferment) it passeth into the 
hands of a new incumbent, and therefore she must leave 
it — (ah ! how often under circumstances of accumulated 
distress !) then, indeed, it is painful to think of the de- 
parture of a widow from her husband's house. 

Never widow sustained a heavier loss by the best hus- 
band's death, than did Mrs Helen Seale by that of the 
best of brothers. And by his decease the living of 
Broad Summerford falling to a new rector, she had of 
course to provide another home for the short residue of 
her earthly sojourn. The choice of that asylum was 
hardly left to her own free-will, so pressing were the en- 
treaties of her numerous kindred that she would take up 



BROAD STJMMERFORD. * 163 

her abode among them in her native island. I fear, in- 
deed, that she was sorely beset on the occasion, and that, 
when finally prevailed on to fix her residence beneath the 
roof of two female cousins, she rather yielded to impor- 
tunity, and to what she considered a grateful sense of 
their desire to accommodate her, than to the secret incli- 
nations of her own meek and affectionate heart, whose 
dictates, had she attended to them only, would probably 
have induced her to re-establish herself in England, in 
the vicinity of my parents, her most beloved, and, I may 
say, most disinterestedly attached relations. But matters 
were ordered otherwise. The maiden sisters obtained 
Mrs Helen's promise to establish herself with them; and 
it was furthermore decreed, that a male relation of both 
parties, one of Mr Seale's executors, should escort her to 
her new place of abode, when the affairs which were 
likely to detain her in England were finally arranged. In 
truth, the necessary delay was to her a respite ; for 
grievous as was the void in all her home enjoyments, ir- 
reparable as was the change at the rectory, it was still 
full of associations and recollections more precious to her 
than any social comforts the world had now to offer. 

It was soon known at Summerford, that the living 
was already bestowed, by its young titled patron, on a 
college friend of his own standing, just qualified to hold 
it ; and rumour prepared the parishioners to expect in 
him a pastoral guide of very different character from that 
of their late venerable minister, Mr Seale's curate was, 
however, continued in his functions pro tempore, and for a 
few weeks nothing decisive was known of the new rec- 
tor. 

In as far as was compatible with the great change 
which had taken place in her earthly circumstances — and 
in spite of her approaching removal — so omnipotent is 



164 CHURCHYARDS CHAP. XII. 

habit, that Mrs Helen had again fallen quietly into tbe 
routine of her accustomed occupations and household 
cares ; and a superficial observer would have perceived 
little alteration in her deportment and person, except that 
the former was somewhat more subdued and serious — - 
that her quiet movements were more slow and feeble — - 
and that she looked more aged, partly from an increased 
stoop in her gait, and from the exchange of her usual 
attire for a still closer garb of the deepest mourning. Her 
soft fair hair, scarcely silvered till her brother's death, but 
now completely blanched, was no longer smoothed up 
over the roll beneath her clear lawn cap, but parted and 
combed straight on either side, under the broad mourn- 
ing hems of a close mob ; and a large black silk handker- 
chief, crossed over her bosom, almost concealed the under 
one of thick white muslin. Thus habited, Mrs Helen 
was one evening engaged in her storeroom, superintend- 
ing and assisting in the homely office, of which I have 
before made mention — that of sugar-nipping. One of 
Mrs Betty's aprons was pinned before her own, but Mrs 
Betty herself had been despatched on some errand to a 
distant part of the house ; and the former comely embon- 
point of that faithful handmaid having amplified to a vast 
weight of portliness, she moved with corresponding 
majesty of gait, and was long absent on her five minutes' 
mission. It was near midsummer — not a leaf stirred in 
the glow of a cloudless sunset — not a domestic creature, 
fowl, beast, or biped, was visible about the rectory, every 
door and window of which were flung wide open, so that 
a stranger might have entered unnoticed, and found his 
way unimpeded into every chamber of the mansion. Sud- 
denly wheels were heard rapidly approaching the entrance 
gate. Then the short pull up and knowing check of 
some flashing Jehu, as he fi^n? the reins with various 



BROAD SUMMERFORD. 165 

charges to an attendant groom — then the clinking of spurs 
and the creaking of boots across the court — in the en- 
trance-hall, (for no regular summons was sounded, and 
no servant appeared to question the intruder) — in the 
parlour — along the vestibule — and at last in the very- 
passage conducting to Mrs Helen's sacred apartment — 
the whole progress being accompanied by certain musical 
variations between a song and a whistle, and the patter- 
ing of four-footed creatures, and the admonitions of — 
"Down, Ponto ; down, sir!" " Back, Di ; back, you 
toad ! " — apparently unheeded by the canine offenders, for 
in they rushed, a brace of noble pointers, into the very- 
presence of Mrs Helen — and immediately their noisy 
owner stood in propria persona, on the very threshold of 
her sanctuary. There stood the dear old lady, not ex- 
actly 

" With locks flung back, and lips apart, 
Fit monument of Grecian art ;" 

but certainly with " lips apart," and slightly quivering 
with surprise and trepidation — her mild blue eyes, expres- 
sive of strange perplexity, the nippers in one hand and 
a lump of sugar in the other ; and, as I told you, Mrs 
Betty's apron (a checked one as it happened) pinned 
over her own of snowy muslin. And there stood the 
intruder, a handsome, good-humoured-looking coxcomb 
six feet high, in a pepper-and-salt frock, tight buckskins, 
and yellow-topped boots ; a most unclerical beaver rakishly 
set on one side — a silver whistle dangling from his button- 
hole, and an eyeglass round his neck, through which he 
took deliberate cognizance of the apartment and its ven- 
erable occupant. The latter soon became aware, that, in 
the phenomenon before her, she beheld the successor of 
her late revered brother ; and before the shock and 
amazement incident on that discovery had any way sub- 



166 CHURCHYARDS CHAP. XII. 

sided, the young parson, evidently mistaking- her for a 
housekeeper, or upper servant, proceeded to make very 
unceremonious observations and enquiries ; almost imme- 
diately, however, cutting- short the string of his own 
queries, by the still more cavalier address of — " But that 
will do by-and-by — time enough to ransack the old kennel 
— and now I'm starving — so despatch, old girl ! D'ye 
hear ? and get me something to eat, if you've any prog 
in the house." 

Mrs Helen was aware of his mistake, and neither mor- 
tified nor indignant at the unaccustomed salutation ; on 
the contrary, when she heard this pressing appeal to her 
hospitality, the natural disgust excited by his unclerical 
appearance, gave place to her innate kindliness ; and 
anxious to supply his wants — and, if possible, with the 
particular sort of viand which she imagined him to have 
specified, she looked up in his face with grave simplicity, 
and very seriously inquired — " Pray, sir, what is prog?" 

The question set him off in a roar of laughter, and, 
before the fit had half subsided, Mrs Betty's entrance 
undeceived him as to the rank of the person he had been 
so jocularly addressing ; and then the young man, who, 
though very unclerically disposed, was neither unfeeling 
nor ill-bred, became really confused and distressed at the 
recollection of his absurd behaviour, and endeavoured to 
atone for it by the most respectful apologies. They were 
very placably accepted ; and a servant having been sum- 
moned to show the new rector to a sitting-room, or to his 
chamber — or, if it suited his convenience, to take a brief 
survey of the mansion to which he came with a master's 
right, Mrs Helen gave directions for the preparation of 
such refreshments as could be served up with the least 
delay ; and her famished guest found them so excellent 
in their way, that his respect for the hospitable entertainer 



BROAD SUMMERFORD. 167 

increased with every mouthful ; and it was magnified to 
absolute veneration by the time his repast was con- 
cluded. 

A breakfast table, supplied with the finest Mocha 
coffee, the most perfect " green imperial," the most 
savoury potted meats, the richest orange marmalade, and 
the thickest cream he had ever regaled on, put the climax 
to his ecstatic admiration of the venerable hostess ; and if 
at that moment he did not actually conceive the idea of 
addressing her with matrimonial proposals — the possibi- 
lity of detaining her as superintendent of his future 
establishment, did certainly suggest itself — " For, what 
could I do better ? " he very rationally soliloquized — " a 
nice, kind, motherly old lady ! — gives capital feeds ! — 
never tasted such potted shrimps ! — makes tea like an 
angel ! — won't be much in the way — (not half so bad as 
a wife) — and I must have somebody." 

Very rational cogitations ! — But the young rector was 
too politic and well-bred to broach the subject abruptly 
to his ladylike hostess ; and having informed himself of 
all particulars respecting her — of her high respectability 
and perfect independence — that knowledge, though it con- 
firmed his desire to detain her at the rectory, made him 
aware that his only chance of success would be to ingra- 
tiate himself by respectful attention, and, if possible, to 
interest her kind feelings in his behalf, before he ventured 
on the grand proposal. It was by no means difficult to 
effect the latter object. Mrs Helen's benevolence extended 
itself over every thing that lived and breathed ; and her 

new inmate, besides that he sedulously cultivated her 
good opinion, really possessed many amiable, and some 

sterling qualities. 

Left, in his earliest infancy, to the sole care of a doting 

widowed mother, he had been a most affectionate and 



168 CHURCHYARDS. — CHAP. XII. 

dutiful son ; and tender recollections of his lost parent 
(whose death was yet recent) made him more feelingly- 
alive to the maternal kindness of his new acquaintance. 
He was by no means viciously disposed, though the 
world and the world's ways had too much influence over 
a heart of which the clerical profession was not the free 
disinterested choice ; and though it was too probable that 
in many and material points he would fall far short of 
the late rector's amiable example, he showed an early 
and sincere intention to emulate it in beneficence at least, 
and only required to be directed in the distribution of his 
bounty by Mrs Helen's judgment and experience. 

He could scarcely have urged a more efficient plea 
for the venerable lady's continuance at Broad Summer- 
ford ; and, moreover, he succeeded in exciting her com- 
passion for his utter inexperience in housekeeping and 
the management of a family, and for the loneliness to 
which he should be condemned if she persevered in her 
intention of departure ; and, by a master-stroke of policy, 
he so craftily insinuated himself into Mrs Betty's good 
graces, as to inlist all her influence in his favour, so that 
the ancient handmaiden lost no opportunity of observing 
to her lady, that it would be almost a sin to leave such 
an innocent open-hearted young gentleman, no more fit 
to keep house than the babe unborn, to be preyed upon 
and devoured like a lamb among a flock of wolves, by a 
pack of idle rogues and hussies, " And then," said she, 
u though to be sure he falls far short of what has been at 
the rectory, and can never come up to that, yet who knows 
ma'am, what we might make of him in the end : and, at 
any rate, you would not think of leaving him, just as the 
pickling and preserving time is coming on, and there is 
not so much as a pot of black currant jelly left, (and he 
told me he was subject to bad sore throats,) and all the 



BROAD SUMMERFORD. 169 

tincture of rhubarb and the senna walnuts are out, and 
Betty Hinks had the last of the palsy-water yesterday ; 
and I am sure you would not choose to leave him only the 
bare shelves, poor young- gentleman, or without a handsome 
stock of every thing- good and comfortable. Besides, I've 
just set Cicely about a set of new shirts for him — (I got 
the cambric a bargain ;) and then there's all his house- 
hold linen to be provided, though, to be sure, if we were 

to stay " 

If Mrs Betty had studied the art of oratory, she could 
not more happily have timed the pause politic. Her 

incomplete sentence — " If we were to stay " left 

Mrs Helen to ponder over all the real good she might 
do, if she did stay — and her secret enumeration went 
further, perhaps, and extended to nobler views, than 
were particularized in Mrs Betty's catalogue. "To do 
good," was the most influential of all motives with one of 
Mrs Helen's truly Christian character — and to bless had 
been the business of her life. Now, though bereaved of 
him in whose life hers had been bound up, those affec- 
tions which had centred in him did not all shrink 
inward, absorbed in selfish sorrow ; and they had been 
greatly won upon by the respectful and almost filial 
attention of her young acquaintance. There was no con- 
geniality of disposition between herself and the persons 
who had importuned her to dwell among them, neither 
had they any near or dear claims upon her; and then, 
though she had never uttered one idle regret, never indul- 
ged one thought that savoured of repining, her heart clung 
to the earth — the very earth of Broad Summerford — 
above all, to that narrow portion of it hallowed by the 
grave of her beloved companion. All these considera- 
tions, and possibly something of the natural effect of age 
on a singularly gentle character, the force of habit, the 



170 CHURCHYARDS. — CHAP. XII. 

dread of change, the formidable prospect of a journey and 
a voyage of isolation among strangers — all these consider- 
ations and circumstances co-operated so well with the 
young rector's persuasive eloquence, that Mrs Helen 
would probably have ended her days at Broad Summer- 
ford, had she been left to her own uncontrolled decision. 

But she had some thousands at her sole disposal, and 
the tender solicitude with which her distant kindred had 
pressed her to reside among them, was so far from suffer- 
ing any abatement by " hope deferred," that it kindled 
into a glow of inexpressible impatience for her removal 
from Broad Summerford, when they became aware that 
the unexpected conduct of the new rector had more than 
half-reconciled her to continue there ; so they zealously 
bestirred themselves in assisting her to arrange the affairs 
which still required her presence in England. Business 
that (as they had lately averred) would require months 
to settle, was now disposed of in as many days. Difficul- 
ties were smoothed, objections levelled, obstacles removed, 
(no such pioneer as interested zeal,) promises insisted on, 
claims of blood, of affection, of propriety, urged impera- 
tively, almost reproachfully, till the object was effected; 
and the good old lady, with her ancient abigail, the staid 
Cicely, and John Somers's grand-nephew, (now advanced 
to his uncle's office,) were uprooted from their peaceful 
home, and transported the weary way by sea and land, to 
that which had been provided for them under the roof of 
the maiden sisters, whose capacious and commodious 
dwelling had obtained for them the warmly-contested 
privilege of receiving, or rather making prize of their 
" dear cousin." 

I wish I could tell you — I wish I could persuade my- 
self that the remaining years of my dear old friend found 
a happy and serene asylum in that which she was rather 



BROAD STJMMERFORD. 1 Y 1 

compelled than persuaded to accept. At best, the contrast 
between that latter home, and the one she had so long 
inhabited, must have been felt painfully. But I fear, I 
fear, all was not done that might have been done, to 
render the change less striking — that when the removal 
was finally effected — and the " dear cousin" safely depo- 
sited within a ring-fence of kindred surveillance, that 
love grew cold, and zeal relaxed, and respect abated of its 
observances ; and as the meek spirit bowed down with 
the declining frame, advantage was taken of those affect- 
ing circumstances ; and she who, under the fostering care 
of watchful affection, or even in the quiet independence 
of her own free home, might still have supported her 
honoured part in society, and tasted the sweets of social 
intercourse, sunk into a very cipher, obviously treated as 
such, in an establishment, of which, though spoken of as 
a household partnership, she bore the entire charges. 
And when, about two years after the removal from Sum- 
merford, it pleased God (by a sudden stroke) to deprive 
her of her faithful friend and servant, whose indignant 
spirit and honest zeal had in some measure stemmed the 
tide of encroachments on the independence of her more 
gentle and passive mistress — when it pleased God to take 
away from her this faithful creature, under various frivo- 
lous pretences, it was soon afterwards contrived to remove 
from about her the two other attached servants who had 
followed her fortunes from Summerford. 

" What need of two ? " they said, " what need of one ? 
To follow in a house, where twice so many- 
Have a command to tend you ? 

****** 
" I pr'ythee, lady ! being weak, seem so. 
All's not offence that indiscretion finds, 
And dotage terms so." 

But the mild nature so heartlessly aggrieved took no 



172 CHURCHYARDS CHAP. XII. 

offence — - complained of no injuries — resisted no indig- 
nities. Unhappily, perhaps, she was too silent — too 
passive ; for a word of appeal from herself would have 
brought friends, and firm ones, to her rescue. But she 
was timid by nature, and her mental energies gave way 
at the first shock of unkindness. Her life was protracted 
to an unusual extent ; but for many years before her 
death, repeated, though slight paralytic seizures had par- 
tially deprived her of the use of speech. Partially only ; 
for though unable to express her wants and wishes in 
explicit language, or to utter a sentence in common con- 
versation, she could recite the Psalms — the whole book 
of Psalms — with unfailing accuracy and unfaltering arti- 
culation ; and those sacred songs became her language, 
adapted and applied to all such subjects as she was in- 
clined to notice, with an aptness and promptitude which 
bespoke an inspired, rather than a disordered intellect ; 
and hers was not disordered. The fearful spirit sank 
under oppression and neglect ; but the believing soul 
took refuge with its God — communed continually with 
him in the sublimest of all strains ; and it is not pre- 
sumptuous to believe, that when the faltering tongue 
breathed out that pathetic appeal — " Leave me not in the 
time of mine old age — neither forsake me when my 
strength faileth me" — it is not too much to believe that 
an answer was immediately vouchsafed, and that the inward 
ears were blessed with the sound of that gracious assurance 
— " I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee." To the last 
(for such sublime colloquy) her utterance and her intellect 
failed not. From the period that those divine songs had 
become her sole language, she had continually recited 
them in the accents of her mother-tongue, and one who 
stood beside her deathbed told me, that the moment before 
her departure, she slowly and audibly articulated — 



BROAD SUMMERFORD. ] 73 

" Mon ame, retourne, en ton repos, car l'Eternal t'a 
fait du bien. Je marcherai en la presence de l'Eternal, dans 
la terre des vivans " 



174 CHURCHYARDS CHAP. XIII. 



CHAPTER XIII. 



THE HAUNTED CHURCHYARD. 



A friend of mine, with whom I lately compared 
churchyard " experiences" gave me a little narrative of 
one which had recently fallen to his share, during an 
angling excursion in one of our northern counties. It 
will be best and easiest to let the narrator speak in his 
own person : so, without further preamble, " I tell the 
tale as it was told to me." 

Arriving about dark one evening at a large village, 
where I proposed taking up my quarters for the night, I 
observed a general stir and agitation, as if a beehive were 
pouring forth its swarming colonists ; and as I proceeded 
down the long straggling street, towards the sign of the 
" Jolly Miller," the whole population of the place seemed 
streaming in the opposite direction of the churchyard, 
which I had passed at the entrance of the village. Men, 
women, and children were hurrying along, with an appear- 
ance of eager trepidation ; and there was a general hum of 
voices, though every one seemed to speak below his 
natural key, except a few blustering youngsters, who 
were whetting their own courage, by boasting of it with 
valiant oaths and asseverations, and ridiculing the coward- 
ice of the women and children. The latter were running 
along close by their mothers, holding fast by their gowns 
or aprons, and every minute pressing nearer, and looking 
up in their faces, with eyes of fearful inquiry. As the 
different groups scudded swiftly by me, I caught here 



THE HAUNTED CHURCHYARD. 175 

and there a few disjointed words about " a ghost," and "the 
churchyard," and " all in white," and " old Andrew," and 
"ten foot high," and " very awful 1" Half-tempted was I to 
turn with the stream, and wind up my day's sport with a 
ghost hunt; but the sign of the Jolly Miller waving before 
me, and the brown loaf, and foaming can, so naturally 
depicted thereon, were irresistible attractions to a poor 
piscator, who had fasted since early morning from all but the 
delights of angling ; and who, as day declined, had followed 
the windings of the stream for many a weary mile, to 
seek rest and refreshment at the village hostelrie. It was 
well for me that I arrived not in equestrian equipage ; for 
neither landlord, hostler, nor male biped of any denomina- 
tion was visible about the large old house and its adjacent 
stable-yard. But I needed no attendance ; so stooping 
with my shoulder-load of rod, basket, and landing-net, as 
I stepped down one step into the low, heavy, old porch, I 
passed straight on into the kitchen, where a blazing fire 
in the huge gaping chimney gave me a cheerful welcome, 
though neither there, nor in the adjoining tap-room, 
could I espy signs or tokens of any living creature. 

I could have been well contented to take silent posses- 
sion of one of the high-backed settles within the ingle- 
nook, had there been wherewithal within reach to appease 
" the rage of hunger," whose importunate calls were 
rather incited "than suppressed by the feeling of warmth 
and comfort which circulated through my whole frame, 
as I stood beside the companionable hearth. So I called 
lustily, and thumped the end of my fishing-rod against 
the heavy oak table and dark wooden partition, till at last 
came hurrying forth from an inner chamber, a little old 
woman, whose sharp shrivelled face betokened no mood 
of sweet complacency. But a few words, intimating m j 
intentions of sojourning in her house that night, and my 



176 CHURCHYARDS CHAP. XIII. 

voracious designs upon her larder and ale-butt, smoothed, 
as if by magic, half the wrinkles in her face, and put her 
in such good-humour, with me at least, that she would 
fain have installed me into the chilling magnificence of 
the parlour, whose sanded and boarded floor, and dismal 
fireless grate, nodding with plumes of fennel, like the 
Enchanted Helmet in the Castle of Otranto, I was obliged 
to glance at, though the first glimpse sent me back with 
shivering eagerness to the comforts of the kitchen-hearth, 
where at last I was permitted to settle myself, while mine 
hostess spread for me a little claw-table, with a snow- 
white cloth, and set about preparing my savoury supper 
of fried eggs and rashers. 

It was not till I had despatched two courses of those, 
with a proportionate quantum of "jolly good ale and old," 
that I found leisure, while attacking the picturesque ruins 
of a fine old Cheshire cheese, to question mine ancient 
hostess respecting those signs of popular agitation which 
had excited my curiosity as I came through the village. 
My enquiry set wide open the floodgates of her eloquence 
and indignation. " Well I might ask," she said, " but, for 
her part, she was almost ashamed to tell me what fools 
the folks made of themselves, — her master among 'em, — 
who was old enough to know better, Lord help him ! 
than to set off, night after night, galloping after a ghost, 
— with Bob Ostler at his heels, and that idle hussy 
Beckey, — leaving her to mind the house, and look to 
every thing, and be robbed and murdered for what they 
knew, — and all for what quotha ? She wished, when their 
time came, they might lie half as quiet in their graves as 
old Andrew did in his, for all their nonsensical crazy talk 
about his walking o' nights." I waited patiently till the 
'larum had unwound itself, then taking up that part of 
the desultory invective which more immediately related 






THE HAUNTED CHURCHYARD. 177 

to the haunted churchyard, and its unquiet tenant, I got 
the old lady fairly into the mood of story-telling- ; and 
from what she then related to me, and from after glean- 
ings among other inhabitants of the village, succeeded in 
stringing together a tolerably connected narrative. 

Andrew Cleaves, whose remains had been interred the 
preceding week in Redburn Churchyard, was the oldest 
man in its large and populous parish, and had been one 
of the most prosperous among its numerous class of 
thriving and industrious husbandmen. 

His little property, which had descended from father 
to son for many generations, consisted of a large and 
comfortable cottage, situated on the remote verge of the 
village common, a productive garden, and a few fields, 
which he cultivated so successfully, rising up early, and 
late taking rest, that by the time he had attained the 
middle period of life, he was enabled to rent a score more 
acres — had got together a pretty stock of cattle — had 
built a barn — and enclosed a rick -yard — and drove as fine 
a team as any in the parish, — was altogether accounted a 
man " well to do in the world," and was generally ad- 
dressed by the style and title of " Farmer Cleaves." Then 
— and not till then — and still with most phlegmatic 
deliberation, he began to look about him for a partner : — 
a help meet, in the true homely sense of the word, was 
the wife he desired to take unto himself; and it was all 
in vain — " Love's Labour Lost " — that many a wealthy 
farmer's flaunting daughter, and many a gay damsel of 
the second table, from my lord's and the squire's, and 
divers other fair ones, set their caps at wary Andrew, 
and spake sweet words to him when chance threw them 
in his path, and looked sweet looks at him when he sat 
within eyeshot at church, in his own old oaken pew, hard 
by the clerk's desk, with his tall, bony, athletic person 



178 CHURCHYARDS. — CHAP. XIII. 

erect as a poker, and his coal-black hair (glossy as the 
raven's wing) combed smooth down over his forehead, 
till it touched the parallel line of two straight jetty eye- 
brows, almost meeting over the high curved nose, and 
overhanging a pair of eyes, dark, keen, and lustrous, but, 
withal, of a severe and saturnine expression, well in keep- 
ing with that of the closely compressed lips and angular 
jaw. Those lips were not made to utter tender non- 
sense — nor those eyes for ogling, verily ; but the latter 
were sharp and discerning enough to find out such qua- 
lifications as he had laid down to himself, as indispensable 
in his destined spouse, among which (though Andrew 
Cleaves was justly accounted a close, penurious man) 
money was not a paramount consideration, as he wisely 
argued within himself, a prudent wife might save him a 
fortune though she did not bring one. A small matter 
by way of portion could not come amiss, however ; and 
i^ndrew naturally weighed in with her other perfections 
the twenty years' savings of the vicar's housekeeper, 
whose age did not greatly exceed his own — who was 
acknowledged to be the best housewife in the parish, and 
the most skilful dairy-woman, having come from a fa- 
mous cheese country, whose fashions she had successfully 
introduced at Redburn Vicarage. Beside which, Mrs 
Dinah was a staid, quiet person — not given to gadding, 
and gossiping, and idle conversation ; and, " moreover," 
quoth Andrew, " I have a respect unto the damsel, and, 
verily, I might go farther and fare worse." 

" Marry in haste, and repent at leisure," was, how- 
ever, another of Andrew's favourite sayings, so he took 
another year or two to consider the matter in all its bear- 
ings ; but as all things earthly come to an end, so at last 
did Andrew Cleaves's ponderings ; and as his actual 
wooing was by no means so tedious an affair, and as the 



THE HAUNTED CHURCHYARD. 179 

discreet Dinah had had ample time for deliberation while 
the important question was pending, the favoured suitor 
was not kept long on the rack of uncertainty, and the 
third Sunday, which completed the bans, saw Mrs Dinah 
" endowed," by Andrew Cleaves, with " all his worldly 
goods," and installed Lady and Mistress of his hitherto 
lonely dwelling. 

He had no reason to repent his choice. For once 
Dame Fortune (so often reviled for her strange blunders 
in match-making — so often accused of " joining the 
gentle with the rude,") had hooked together two kindred 
souls ; and it seemed, indeed, as if Andrew had only re- 
united to himself a sometime divided portion of his own 
nature, so marvellously did he and his prudent Dinah 
sympathize in their views, habits, and principles. Thrift — 
thrift — thrift — and the accumulation of worldly substance, 
was the end and aim of all their thoughts, dreams, and 
undertakings ; yet were they rigidly just and honest in 
all their dealings, even beyond the strict letter of the law, 
of which they scorned to take advantage in a doubtful 
matter; and Andrew Cleaves had been known more than 
once to come forward to the assistance of distressed 
neighbours, (on good security indeed,) but on more 
liberal terms than could have been expected from one of 
his parsimonious habits, or than were offered by persons 
of more reputed generosity. 

Moreover, he was accounted — and he surely accounted 
himself — a very religious man, and a very pious Chris- 
tian — " a serious Christian" he denominated himself; 
and such a one he was in good truth, if a sad and grave 
aspect — solemn speech, much abounding in scriptural 
phrases — slow delivery — erect deportment, and unsocial 
reserve, constitute fair claims to this distinction. More- 
over, he was a regular church-goer — an indefatigable 



180 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XIII. 

reader of his Bible, (of the Old Testament, and the 
Epistles in particular,) — fasted rigidly on all days appointed 
by the church — broke the heads of all the little boys who 
whistled, within his hearing-, on Sabbaths and Saints' 
days — said immoderate long graces before and after meals, 
and sang hymns by the hour, though he had no more 
voice than a cracked pitcher, and not ear enough to dis- 
tinguish between the tunes of the 100th Psalm and 
" Molly put the Kettle on." 

Besides all this, he had been a dutiful, if not an affec- 
tionate son — was a good, if not a tender husband — a 
neighbour of whose integrity no one doubted — a most 
respectable parishioner ; and yet, with all this, Andrew 
Cleaves's was not vital religion^ for it partook not of 
that blessed spirit of love, meekness, and charity, which 
vaunteth not itself — is not puffed up — thinketh no evil 
of its neighbour — neither maketh broad its phylacteries, 
nor prayeth in the corners of market-places, to be seen 
of men. He was neither extortionate nor a drunkard. 
He gave tithes of all that he possessed. He did not 
give half his goods to feed the poor, but, nevertheless, 
contrived to make out such a catalogue of claims on the 
peculiar favour of Heaven, as very comfortably satisfied 
his own conscience, and left him quite at leisure to 
" despise others." 

It had been the misfortune of Andrew Cleaves, to 
have imbibed from his parents those narrow views of 
Christianity ; and their early death had left him an unso- 
ciable being, unloving, unloved, and unconnected, till he 
changed his single for a married state. 

" Habits are stubborn things ; 
And by the time a man is turn'd of forty, 
His ruling passions grow so haughty, 
There is no clipping of his wings." 

Now, Andrew was full forty-three when he entered the 



THE HAUNTED CHURCHYARD. 

pale of matrimony, and the staid Dinah, three good years 
his senior, had no wish to clip them, being-, as we have 
demonstrated, his very counterpart, his " mutual heart" 
in all essential points ; so, without a spark of what silly 
swains and simple maidens call love, and some wedded 
folks, " tender friendship," our serious couple jogged on 
together in a perfect matrimonial railroad of monotonous 
conformity ; and Andrew Cleaves might have gone down 
to his grave unconscious that hearts were made for any 
other purpose than to circulate the blood, if the birth of 
a son, in the second year of his union, had not opened up 
in his bosom such a fountain of love and tenderness, as 
gushed out, like water from the flinty rock, and became 
thenceforth the master passion, the humanizing feeling 
of his stern and powerful character. The mother's fond- 
ness — and she was a fond mother — was nothing, compared 
with that with which the father doted on his babe ; and 
he would rock its cradle, or hush it in his arms, or sing 
to it by the hour, though the lullaby seldom varied from 
the 100th Psalm, and, as he danced it to the same exhila- 
rating tune, it was a wonder that the little Josiah clapped 
his hands, and crowed with antic mirth, instead of com- 
porting himself with the solemnity of a parish clerk in 
swaddling clothes. 

It was strange and pleasant to observe, how the new 
and holy feeling of parental love penetrated, like a ferti- 
lizing dew, the hitherto hard, insensible nature of Andrew 
Cleaves ; how it extended its sweet influence beyond the 
exciting object (the infant darling) to his fellow creatures 
in general, disposing his heart to kindliness and pity, and 
almost to sociability. In the latter virtue, he made so 
great progress as to invite a few neighbours to the christ- 
ening feast, charging his dame to treat them handsomely 
to the best of every thing ; and he himself, for the first 



182 CHURCHYARDS CHAP. XIII. 

time in his life " on hospitable thoughts intent," pressed 
and smiled, and played the courteous host to a miracle. 

And sometimes, on his way home of an evening, he 
would stop and exchange a few words with an acquaint- 
ance at his cottage door, attracted by the sight of some 
chubby boy, with whose stout limbs and infant vigour he 
would compare, in his mind's eye, the healthful beauty of 
his own urchin. But great indeed was the amazement 
of Dame Cleaves, when Andrew, who had always " set 
his face like a flint" against the whole tribe of idle men- 
dicants, making it a rule not only to chase them from 
his own door, but to consign them, if possible, to the 
wholesome coercion of the parish stocks, actually went 
the length of bestowing a comfortable meal, a night's 
shelter in an outhouse, and a bed of clean straw, on a 
soldier's widow, who was travelling, with her babe in her 
arms, towards the far distant home of its dead father. 

Dame Cleaves stared in strange perplexity, and said 
something about " charity beginning at home," and 
" coming to want," and " harbouring idle hussies and 
their brats." But Andrew was peremptory, for his eye 
had glanced from the poor soldier's fatherless babe to the 
cherished creature at that time nestling in his own bosom. 
So the widow was " warmed and fed," and left a blessing 
on her benefactor, who, on his part, failed not to accom • 
pany his parting " God speed you," and the small piece 
of money which accompanied it, with an impressive lec- 
ture on the sinfulness of want and pauperism, and a 
comfortable assurance, that they were always deserved 
manifestations of divine displeasure. 

Just as the little Josiah had attained his second year, 
Andrew Cleaves was called on to resign the wife of his 
bosom, who went the way of all flesh, after a short but 
sharp illness. She had so fully realized all the calculations 



THE HAUNTED CHURCHYARD. 183 

that had decided Andrew to choose her for his mate, that 
he regretted her loss very sincerely; but resignation, 
he justly observed, was the duty of a Christian, and 
Andrew was wonderfully resigned and composed, even 
in the early days of his bereavement, throwing out many 
edifying comments on the folly and sinfulness of immo- 
derate grief, together with sundry apposite remarks, well 
befitting his own circumstances, and a few proverbial 
illustrations aud observations, such as, " Misfortunes 
never come alone, for his poor dame was taken at night, 
and the old gander was found dead in the morning." 
Moreover, he failed not to sum up, as sources of rational 
consolation, " that it had pleased the Lord to spare her 
till the boy ran alone, and Daisey's calf was weaned, and 
all the bacon cured ; and he himself had become fully 
competent to supply her place in the manufacturing of 
cheeses." So Andrew buried his wife and was com- 
forted. 

And, from the night of her death, he took his little 
son to his own bed, and laid him in his mother's place ; 
and long and fervent were the prayers he ejaculated before 
he went to rest, kneeling beside his sleeping child ; and 
cautious and tender as a mother's kiss, was that he im- 
printed on its innocent brow before he turned himself to 
slumber. Early in the morning an elderly widow, who 
had been used to cook his victuals, and set the cottage to 
rights before his marriage, came to take up and tend the 
boy, and get breakfast for him and his father, and she 
was now detained through the day, in the care of house- 
hold concerns, and of the motherless little one. She was 
a good and tender foster-mother, and a careful manager 
withal, falling readily into Andrew's ways and likings, a 
woman of few words, and content with little more than 
her victuals and drink — and, inoffensive and taciturn as 



184 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XIII. 

she was, he had a feeling of snug 1 satisfaction in locking* 
her out every evening when she betook herself to sleep 
at her own cottage. Then was Andrew wont to turn 
back to his own solitary hearth, with a feeling of self 
gratulation, not evincing much taste for social enjoyment, 
or any disposition again to barter his secure state of single 
blessedness for a chance in the matrimonial lottery — 
from which, having drawn a first-rate prize, it would 
have been presumptuous to expect a second. 

What with old Jenny's help, and his own notability, 
(he had not lived so long a bachelor without having 
acquired some skill in housewifery,) he got on very com- 
fortably; and for a living object to care for, and to love, 
the little Josiah was to him wife, child, companion — every 
thing I So Andrew continued faithful as a widowed 
turtle to the memory of his deceased Dinah ; and the 
motherless boy throve as lustily as if he had continued to 
nestle under the maternal wing. He was, in truth, a 
fine sturdy little fellow, full of life and glee, and " quips 
and cranks, and mirthful smiles," and yet as like Andrew 
as " two peas." " The very moral of the father," said 
old Jenny, " only not so solemnlike." He had Andrew's 
jetty eyebrows, and black lustrous eyes, deep set under 
the broad projecting brow ; but they looked out with 
roguish mirth from their shadowy cells, and the raven 
hair, that, like his father's, almost touched his straight eye- 
brows, clung clustering over them, and round his little fat 
poll, in a luxuriance of rich, close, glossy curls. His mouth 
was shaped like his father's, too ; but Andrew's could 
never, even in childhood, have relaxed into such an ex- 
pression of dimpled mirth, as the joyous laugh burst out 
— that sound of infectious gladness which rings to one's 
heart's core like a peal of merry bells. He was a fine 
little fellow I and at five years old the joy and pride of 



THE HAUNTED CHURCHYARD. 185 

the doting father, not only for his vigorous beauty, but 
for his quick parts and wonderful forwardness in learning ; 
for Andrew was a scholar, and had early taken in hand his 
son's education ; so that, at the age above mentioned, he 
could spell out passages in any printed book, could say the 
Lord's Prayer and the Belief, and great part of the Ten 
Commandments, though he stuck fast at the Thirty-nine 
Articles, and the Athanasian Creed, which his father had 
thought it expedient to include among his theological 
studies. It was the proudest day of Andrew Cleaves's 
whole life, when for the first time he led his little son by 
the hand along the aisle of his parish-church into his 
own pew, and lifted up the boy upon the seat beside him, 
where (so well had he been tutored, and so profound was 
his childish awe) he stood stock-still, with his new red 
Prayer-book held open in his two little chubby hands, 
and his eyes immovably fixed, not on the book, but on 
his father's face. All eyes were fixed upon the boy, for, 
verily, a comical little figure did the young Josiah exhibit 
that Sabbath-day. Andrew Cleaves had a sovereign con- 
tempt for petticoats, (though of course he had never 
hinted as much in his late spouse's hearing,) and could 
ill brook that his son and heir, a future lord of creation, 
should be ignominiously trammelled even in swaddling- 
clothes. So soon, therefore, as a change was feasible — 
far sooner than old Jenny allowed it to be so — the boy 
was emancipated from his effeminate habiliments, and 
made a man of — a little man complete, in coat, waistcoat, 
and breeches, made after the precise fashion of his father's, 
who had set the tailor to work in his own kitchen, under 
his own eye, and on a half-worn suit of his own clothes, 
out of which enough remained in excellent preservation 
to furnish a complete equipment for the man in minia- 
ture. So little Josiah's Sunday-going suit consisted of a 



186 CHURCHYARDS. — CHAP. XIII. 

long-tailed coat of dark-blue broad cloth, lapelled back, 
with two rows of large gilt basket-work buttons, a red 
plush waistcoat, (the month being July,) brown corduroy 
breeches, with knee-buckles, grey worsted hose, and 
large new square-toed shoes, with a pair of heavy silver 
buckles, once belonging to his mother, that, covering his 
little feet quite across, like a couple of pack-saddles, 
touched the ground as he walked on either side of them. 
Add to this a stiff broad-brimmed beaver, (padded within 
all round to fit his tiny pate,) under the shadow of which 
the baby face was scarce discoverable, and the whole dimi- 
nutive person moved like a walking mushroom. 

Proud was the boy of his first appearance, so equipped, 
before the assembled congregation ; and very proud was 
Andrew Cleaves, who felt as if now indeed he might 
assume unto himself, before the elders of his people, the 
honour of being father to a man-child. 

From that day forth little Josiah, led in his father's 
hand, came regularly to church every Sabbath-day ; but, 
alas ! his after demeanour, during service, by no means 
realized the promise of that solemn propriety wherewith 
he comported himself on his first memorable appearance ; 
and it soon required Andrew's utmost vigilance to rebuke 
and check his son's restless and mischievous propensities. 
Great was the father's horror and consternation on detect- 
ing him in the very act of making faces at the vicar 
himself, whose unfortunate obliquity of vision had excited 
the boy's monkey talent of mimicry ; and at last the 
young rebel was suddenly and for ever deposed from his 
lofty station on the seat beside his father, for having taken 
a sly opportunity of pinning the hind bow of an old lady's 
bonnet to the back of her pew, whereby her bald pate 
was cruelly exposed to the eyes of the congregation, as 



THE HAUNTED CHURCHYARD. 187 

she rose up, with unsuspecting 1 innocence, at the Gloria 
Patri. 

At home, too, Andrew soon discovered that his pa- 
rental cares were likely to multiply in full proportion to 
his parental pleasures. Little Josiah was quick at learn- 
ing, but of so volatile a spirit, that, in the midst of one 
of his father's finest moral declamations, or most elaborate 
expoundings, he would dart off after a butterfly, or mount 
astride on the old sheep-dog; and at last, when sharply 
rebuked for his irreverent antics, look up piteously in his 
father's face, and yawn so disconsolately, that Andrew's 
iron jaws were fain to sympathize with the infectious gri- 
mace, to their owner's infinite annoyance. At meal times 
it was wellnigh impossible to keep his little hands from 
the platter while his father pronounced a long and com- 
prehensive grace, with an especial supplication for the 
virtues of abstinence and forbearance ; and so far from 
continuing to take pride in the manly dignity of his rai- 
ment, it became necessary to dock his waistcoat-flaps, and 
the long skirts of his week-day coat, the pockets of the 
former being invariably crammed with pebbles, munched 
apples, worms, brown sugar, snails, cockchafers, and all 
manner of abominations ; and on the latter it was not only 
his laudable custom to squat himself in the mud and mire, 
but, being- of an imitative and inventive genius, and 
having somewhere read a history of the beavers, he 
forthwith began to practise their ingenious mode of 
land-carriage, by dragging loads of rubbish behind him 
on the aforesaid coat-tails, as he slid along in a sitting 
posture. 

Greatly did Andrew Cleaves marvel, that a son of his 
should evince such unseemly propensities, having* perpe- 
tually before his eyes an example of sober seriousness 
and strict propriety. But, nevertheless, he doted on the 



188 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XIII. 

boy with unabated fondness — toiled for him — schemed 
for him — waked for him — dreamt of him — lived in him 
— idolized him ! — Yes ! — Andrew Cleaves, who had been 
wont to hold forth so powerfully on the sin and folly of 
idol worship, he set up in his heart an earthly image, and 
unconsciously exalted it above his Maker. 

Andrew's cottage was situated on the extreme verge 
of a large and lonely common, which separated it from 
the village of Redburn, and it was also at a considerable 
distance from any other habitation. He had taken upon 
himself his son's early instruction, and it was conse- 
quently easy enough to maintain a point which he had 
much at heart, that of keeping the boy aloof from all 
intercourse with the village children, or indeed with any 
persons, save himself and old Jenny, except in his com- 
pany. This system, to which he rigidly adhered, had a 
very unfavourable effect on his own character, repressing 
in it all those kindlier and more social feelings which had 
almost struggled into preponderance, when the hard sur- 
face was partially thawed by the new sense of parental 
tenderness, and while his son was yet a cradled babe, and 
he had nothing to apprehend for him on the score of 
evil communications. But now he guarded him as misers 
guard their gold — as he himself, alas ! hoarded the 
mammon of unrighteousness, (his secondary object,) but 
" solely for his darling's sake." So Andrew compromi- 
sed the matter with his conscience, and so he would have 
anwered to any enquiring Christian. 

The boy, though thus debarred from all communica- 
tion save with his father and old Jenny, was nevertheless 
as happy as any child of the same age. He had never 
known the pleasures of association with youthful play- 
mates — he was full of animal spirits and invention, 
particularly in the science of mischief; — he completely 



THE HAUNTED CHURCHYARD. 189 

ruled old Jenny in the absence of his father ; and, except 
at lesson times and on Sabbaths, had acquired more as- 
cendancy over that stern father himself, than Andrew 
anyway suspected. 

The interval between the boy's fourth and seventh 
year was, perhaps, the happiest in the whole lives of 
father and son ; but that state of things could not con- 
tinue. Andrew Cleaves had aspiring views for his young 
Josiah — and it had always been his intention to give 
him "the best of learning;" in furtherance of which 
purpose he had looked about him, almost from the hour 
of the boy's birth, for some respectable school wherein to 
place him, when his own stock of information became 
incompetent to the task of teaching. He had at last 
pitched upon a grammar-school in the county town, 
about five miles from his own habitation, where the sons 
of respectable tradesmen and farmers were boarded, and 
taught upon moderate terms; though, to do Andrew 
justice, saving considerations were not paramount with 
him, when his son's welfare was concerned, and he was 
far more anxious to ascertain that his morals, as well as 
his learning, would be strictly attended to. On that 
head he of course received the most satisfactory assu- 
rances from the master of the <l Academy for Young 
Gentlemen ;" and having likewise ascertained that the 
boy would have an ample allowance of wholesome food, 
it is not wonderful that Andrew Cleaves threw the " mo- 
derate terms " as the third weight into the scale of deter- 
mination. 

The greater number of the boys — those whose parents 
were dwellers in the town of C , were only day- 
boarders ; but some, whose families lived at a greater 
distance, went home on Saturdays only, to spend the 
Sabbath-day ; and it was Andrew's private solace to think 



190 CHURCHYARDS CHAP. XIII. 

that the separation from his child would be rendered less 
painful by that weekly meeting-. It had taken him full 
six months, and sundry journeyings to and fro, to make 
all his arrangements with the master. But at last they 
were completed, and nothing- remained but the trial — 
the hard, hard trial — of parting- with that creature who 
constituted his all of earthly happiness. Andrew was a 
hard man, little susceptible of tender weakness in his 
own nature, and ever prone to contemn and censure in 
others the indulgence of any feeling incompatible (in his 
opinion) with the dignity of a man and the duty of a 
Christian. 

His God was not a God of love ; and when he rebuked 
the natural tears of the afflicted — the submissive sorrows 
of the stricken heart — it was in blind forgetfulness of him 
who wept over the grave of his friend Lazarus. He had 
honoured his parents during- their lifetime, and buried 
them with all decent observance ; but with no other out- 
ward demonstration of woe, than a more sombre shade on 
his always severe countenance. " The desire of his eyes" 
was taken from him, and he had shown himself a pattern 
of pious resignation. And now he was to part with his 
son for a season, and who could doubt that the temporary 
sacrifice would be made with stoical firmness ? And so it 
should verily, was Andrew's purpose ; upon the strength 
of which he proceeded, with old Jenny's advice and assist- 
ance, to make requisite preparation for the boy's equip- 
ment. Nay, he was so far master of himself, as to rebuke 
the old woman's foolish fondness when she remarked, 
" how lonesome the cottage would seem when the dear 
child was g-one ;" and he expressed himself the more 
wrathfully, from the consciousness of a certain unwonted 
rising in his throat, which half choked him as she went 
< maundering on." 



THE HAUNTED CHURCHYARD. 191 

To the child himself, he had not yet breathed a syllable 
of his intentions, and yet more than twice or thrice he 
had taken him on his knee, to tell him of the approach- 
ing change. But something always occurred to defer the 
execution of his purpose — the boy stopped his mouth with 
kisses — or he prattled so there was no getting in a word, 
edgeways — or it would do as well in the evening, when 
he came home from his fields. But then, the young one 
came running to meet him, and had always so much to ask 
and tell, that the important communication was still 
delayed. In the morning, before he rose from his pillow, 
he would tell it as the boy lay still by his side ; but while 
the secret was actually on his lips, his little bedfellow 
crept into his bosom, and nestled there so lovingly, that 
his voice died away, as it were, into the very depths of 
his heart, and the words were yet unspoken. At length 
he hit upon an opportunity, which was sure to present 
itself erelong. The next time Josiah was idle and 
refractory at his lessons — that very moment, in the 
strength of indignation, he would tell him he was to leave 
his father's roof, and be consigned to the rule of strangers. 
Alas ! that fitting occasion was in vain laid wait for — = 
Josiah truly did his best to forward it, but the father 
could not be angry — and he could not speak. 

At last, seriously angry with himself — humiliated at 
the triumph of human weakness, to which he had hitherto 
boasted himself superior — Andrew departed one morning 
to his labours earlier than usual, having deputed to 
Jenny the task, to which he felt himself unequal. All 
that morning the father's thoughts were with his child. 
He pictured to himself the first burst of distress — the 
first grievous surprise — the inconsolable sorrow at the 
thought of parting — and he longed to return, and clasp 
the boy to his heart, and to kiss off the tears from his 



192 CHURCHYARDS CHAP. XIII. 

dear face, and comfort him with soothing words and in- 
dulgent promises. 

But still as the fond impulse rose within him, he wrest- 
led with it manfully, and lashed on his team, and laid his 
hand upon the plough, as if to support himself in resolute 
forbearance. No wonder the furrows Andrew traced that 
day were the most uneven he had ever drawn, since the 
hour he first guided his own plough on his own acres. 
He kept firm to his post, however, till the usual dinner 
hour, and even left the field with his labourers, without 
deviating from his accustomed firm, deliberate step ; but 
when they had turned out of sight to their own homes, 
then Andrew speeded on rapidly towards his cottage, till 
just within sight of it he spied the little Josiah running 
forward to meet him. Then again he slackened his pace, 
for his heart shrunk from the first burst of the boy's im- 
petuous sorrow. 

But those apprehensions were soon exchanged for 
feelings of a more irritable nature, when he perceived that 
the merry urchin bounded towards him with more than 
his usual exuberant glee ; and the first words he distin- 
guished were, — " Father, father, I'm going to school ! — 
I'm going to school ! — I'm going to town, father ! — I'm 
going to school ! When shall I go? — Shall I go to-mor- 
row ? — Shall I take my new clothes, father ? And my 
hoop, and my lamb, and old Dobbin ?" 

A bitter pang it was that shot through Andrew's heart 
at that moment — a bitter revulsion of feeling was that he 
experienced. He made no allowance for the volatile 
nature of childhood — its restless desire of change and love 
of novelty — its inconsideration — its blissful recklessness of 
the future. He read only in the boy's exulting rapture, 
that this his only, only child — the only creature he had 
ever loved — who had slept in his bosom, and prattled on 



THE HAUNTED CHURCHYARD. 193 

his knee, and won from him such fond indulgences as he 
could scarce excuse to his own conscience — this darling 
of his age, now on the eve of a first separation, broke out 
into extravagant joy at the prospect, and testified no 
anxiety but to take with him his playthings, and his dumb 
favourites. The sudden revulsion of feeling came upon 
Andrew like an ice-bolt, and there he stood motionless, 
looking sternly and fixedly on the poor child, who was 
soon awed and silenced by his father's unwonted aspect, 
and stood trembling before him, fearing he knew not 
what. At last he softly whispered, sidling closely up, 
and looking earnestly and fearfully in his father's face, — 
" Shall I not go to school then ? Old Jenny said I 
should." 

That second, quiet interrogatory restored to Andrew 
the use of speech, and the mastery over all his softer 
feelings. " Yes," he replied, taking the boy's hand, and 
grasping it firmly within his own, as he led him home- 
ward — " Yes, Josiah, you shall go to school — you have 
been kept too long at home : — to-morrow is the Sabbath, 
but on Monday you shall go. On Monday, my child, 
you shall leave your father." 

That last sentence, and a something he perceived, but 
comprehended not, in his father's voice and manner, pain- 
fully affected the boy, and he burst into tears, and, cling- 
ing to his father's arm, sobbed out, " But you will go 
with me, father ; and you will come and see me every day, 
will you not ? And I shall soon come home again." 

That artless burst of natural affection fell like balm 
on Andrew's irritated feelings, and he caught up his child 
to his bosom, and blessed and kissed him, and then they 
" reasoned together :" and the father told his boy how he 
should fetch him home every Saturday with Dobbin ; and 
how they should still go hand-in-hand to church on the 

N 



194 CHURCHYARDS. — CHAP. XIII. 

Sabbath ; and how his lamb, and the grey colt, should be 
taken care of in his absence ; and his hoop and other toys 
might be carried with him to school. 

Then the child began again his joyous prattle, with 
now and then a sob between ; and the father kissed his 
wet glowing cheek, carrying him all the way home in his 
arms ; and thus lovingly they entered the little garden, 
and the pretty cottage, and sat down side by side, to the 
neat homely meal old Jenny had provided. 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 195 



CHAPTER XIV. 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 



The Sabbath-day passed on as usual; its wonted calm, 
unbroken even by Josiah's eager anticipation of the mor- 
row — for so early and so severely had Andrew incul- 
cated the duty of a grave and solemn demeanour on the 
Lord's day, that the child had learned to imitate his 
father's serious and mortified aspect, and his joyous laugh 
was rarely heard ringing through the house during those 
twelve long tedious hours; and, contrary to his usual 
vivacious habits, he was always anxious to go to bed very 
early on the Sabbath evening, and he had already been 
some hours in a sweet and profound sleep, when his father 
came to bed on that last night preceding the important 
Monday. 

If ever prayers were breathed from the heart, such 
were those of Andrew Cleaves, when, by the pale light 
of a cloudless moon, he knelt down at that solemn hour, 
beside the pillow of his sleeping child, who " looked like 
an angel as he slept," the tender moonbeams playing like 
a glory round those young innocent temples. Yes, if 
ever prayer came direct from the heart, such was that of 
Andrew Cleaves at that solemn hour ; yet never before 
were his whispered aspirations so broken, so faintly mur- 
mured, so devoid of all the graces of speech and metaphor. 
Over and over again his lips murmured — " Bless my 
child — bless him, oh Lord!" and then the words died 
away, and the heart only spoke, for its eloquence was 



196 CHURCHYARDS CHAP. XIV. 

unutterable; yet he continued near an hour in that holy 
communion ; and when at length he rose up from his 
knees, and, bending- over his child, bowed his head to im- 
print the accustomed kiss, large drops rolled down his 
rugged features, and fell on the soft glowing cheek of the 
little sleeper. 

Andrew Cleaves laid himself down to rest that night, 
with such thoughts as might, " if heaven had willed it," 
have matured even then to fruits of blessedness. But his 
time was not yet come. The rock was stricken, but as 
yet the waters gushed not freely out. 

Daylight brought with it other thoughts, and more 
worldly feelings ; and Andrew Cleaves rose up himself 
again, stout of heart and firm of purpose, remembering that 
he was to appear among men, and scorning to betray, 
before his fellow-creatures, any symptom of that tender 
weakness which he felt half humiliated at having yielded 
to in the sight of his Creator.. 

He roused the boy up hastily and cheerily, and hurried 
old Jenny in her breakfast preparations, and in complet- 
ing the packing up of Josiah's box, and equipping him for 
his departure, and the new scene he was about to enter 
on, in a suit of bran new clothes, made, however, after 
the precise fashion of his first manly habiliments ; — and 
Andrew himself was less methodical and deliberate than 
usual in his own proceedings, rinding something to do, or 
to seek for, which hurried him hither and thither, with a 
bustling restlessness very unlike his general clock-work 
movements. 

He sat scarce five minutes at his breakfast, and had not 
consumed half his morning's portion of oatmeal porridge, 
when he started off to draw out the cart, and harness old 
Dobbin ; and the box was locked and brought out — and 
the boy rigged at all points, like a little hog in armour — 



ANDREW CLEAVES* 197 

and the horse and cart at the door — and all ready, though 
Andrew professed he had believed it later than it really 
was, by a full hour, and the sooner they were off the better 
— so cutting short, with peevish impatience, the blubbering 
adieu of poor Jenny — -just as Josiah was beginning to sob 
out in conceit — and saying, " Up wi' ye, my man," he 
jerked him suddenly into the cart, and mounting himself, 
drove off at a rate that caused old Jenny to exclaim, 
" Lord save us, for certain master's bewitched!" — and 
greatly inconvenienced Dobbin, whose usual paces were 
every whit as sedate and deliberate as her master's. 

It is not to be inferred, however, that he continued to 
urge on the venerable beast to those unnatural exertions 
throughout the whole five miles. Andrew was so far a 
humane man, that he was " merciful to his beast," and 
once out of sight of home, permitted her to fall into her 
old jog-trot, taking the opportunity, after clearing his 
throat with sundry hums and ha's, to hold forth very 
lengthily to his young companion on the new course of 
life he was about to enter on — -the new duties he would 
have to fulfil — the zeal for learning — aptness, diligence, 
and perseverance, that would be expected from him — the 
care he was to take of his clothes, and his new Bible and 
Prayer-Book, and the caution with which it would behove 
him to select intimates among his schoolfellows, many of 
whom might be wild, riotous chaps, given to such wicked 
ways as Andrew trembled to think of. 

The boy had listened to this edifying exhortation — 
which had held on through four interminable miles, (for 
Andrew was always soothed and inspired by the sound of 
his own droning preachments,) — just as he had been wont 
to listen to the Rev. Mr Leadbeater s hydra-headed ser- 
mons — in silence indeed, but with most disconsolate 
yawnings and twitchings, and indescribable fidgetings ; but 



198 CHURCHYARDS. — CHAP. XIV. 

when his father came to the head of Schoolfellows, his 
attention was instantly excited ; and suddenly brightening 
up, and skipping over the prohibitory clauses of the dis- 
course, he broke in on it with an enquiry of — whether the 
boys were like to be good hands at hoops and marbles ? 

An interruption so ill-timed and incongruous, would 
have drawn down a sharp rebuke on the heedless offender; 
but just as it was breaking from Andrew's lips, a sudden 
turn of the road brought them to the top of the last hill, 

overlooking the town of C , which now opened at a 

short distance in full view of the travellers. 

There — the father remembered he was to leave his 
boy — so the severe words died away upon his lips, — and 
the child looked, for the first time in his life, on the 
wonderful labyrinth of houses, churches, markets, and 
manufactories, that constitute a considerable county-town; 
and his amazement and delight broke forth with inex- 
pressible vehemence. — " Ay — it's all very fine, my man!" 
said the father, shaking his head — " A fine thing to look 
at, yon great city ; and ye've seen nothing like it afore, 
poor innocent lamb ; but God keep ye from the evil ways 
that are in it, and from the tents of the ungodly !" So 
groaned Andrew ; but nevertheless he drove on with his 
precious charge towards the tents of ungodliness, for he 
had worldly and ambitious views for the boy, and they 
were not to be forwarded in the desert. 

The road wound quite round the brow of the hill in a 
somewhat retrograde direction, so as to alter the otherwise 
precipitous descent into one more gradual and easy. On 
one side arose a wall of chalky cliff; on the other a steep 
slope of slippery down — so Andrew guided old Dobbin 
slowly and carefully round the promontory's brow ; and 
on doubling the point, an unexpected and unwelcome 
sight saluted him. Just beneath, on a sort of green plat- 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 199 

form half-way down the declivity, had stood, from times 
beyond the memory of man, an awful fixture, from which 
the eminence derived its designation of " Gallows-Hill." 
Round that fatal tree, and quite down the remaining 
descent, and ranged, ledge above ledge, up the chalky 
summit, the whole population of C seemed now as- 
sembled ; yet such was the stillness of the vast multitude, 
that no sound indicative of the scene they were approach- 
ing, had reached the ears of Andrew or his son, till they 
came in full sight of it. Andrew Cleaves instinctively 
tightened his rein and halted abruptly, and the boy jumped 
up and caught hold of his father's arm, but uttered not a 
word, as he looked down breathlessly on the condensed 
living mass. At last he drew a long, deep inspiration, 
and looked round in his father's face, the seriousness of 
which had darkened into unusual severity. Rather in 
answer to his own momentary surprise, than in reply to 
the boy's enquiring looks — Andrew uttered, in his deepest, 
lowest tone — " Ay, I see how it is — 'Sizes are over, and 
there's an execution going forward — So perish the guilty 
from the land !" 

Andrew Cleaves would have been a sturdy champion 
for that faith, in the strength of which the valiant Bishop 
Don Hieronymo urged on the slaughter of the Infidels, 
with the shout of — " Smite them, for the love of God !" 
And under the Jewish dispensation, he would never have 
spared Agag, whatever he might have done by " the best 
of the sheep and oxen." So now twice over — yea, three 
several times, he fervently ejaculated — « So perish the 
guilty from the land ! " concluding the third repetition 
with a sonorous " Amen I" which was softly re-echoed 
by the tremulous voice of the unconscious child, who 
having been accustomed at home and at church always 
to repeat the word after the clerk or his father, now 



200 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XIV. 

chimed in mechanically with the pious aspiration. 
" Amen ! " quoth Andrew, and whipped on Dobbin, though 
rather perplexed at having- to make his way through the 
close-wedged multitude. Andrew Cleaves, though a 
severe, was not a cruel man : Though a zealous advocate 
for the extreme rigour of the law, he took no delight in 
witnessing- the actual execution of its dread sentence ; 
neither did he desire that his innocent companion should 
thus prematurely behold a sight so awful. Therefore he 
pushed on as fast as possible, hoping to get clear of the 
crowd before the arrival of the Sheriff and the mournful 
cavalcade, which was slowly approaching. As they passed 
close to the foot of the gibbet, Josiah, glancing upwards 
at the fatal tree, shrunk close to his father, as if he would 
have grown into his very side ; and now their onward 
progress became more difficult — almost impossible. The 
fatal cart was close at hand, and the curious people 
thronged about it to catch a passing view of the con- 
demned. It was in vain that Andrew urged on the old 
mare with voice and lash : she could not force a passage 
through the living wall, so he was fain to take patience, 
and draw up to the side of the road till the sad pageant 
had passed by. The crowd which had arrested his pro- 
gress, impeded also the advance of the cart with its 
wretched burden ; and during the time of its tedious 
approach, Andrew gathered from some of the bystanders, 
that the criminal, who was that day to meet an ignomi- 
nious and untimely fate, was a mere youth, having barely 
attained his twentieth year; that he had been a boy of 
fair promise, till seduced by bad company, and evil ex- 
ample, into irregular ways and lawless practices ; which, 
proceeding from bad to worse, had at last involved him 
in the crime for which he was about to suffer, and which 
would surely bring down to the grave with sorrow the 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 201 

grey hairs of his unhappy parents, whose only child he 
was. 

" Maybe they'll have to blame themselves for the ill 
deeds of their offspring-. Maybe they'll have fallen short 
in setting him a good example, and in bringing him up 
in the fear of the Lord, and the renunciation of sin and 
Satan,'' sententiously observed Andrew, firmly compress- 
ing his lips, and contracting his dark brows into their 
sternest and most awful expression. 

" You're quite wrong there, master," indignantly 
retorted a woman, who was squeezed up close to the side 
of the cart, and whose hard-favoured countenance exhi- 
bited an expression little less saturnine than Andrew's ; 
and, to use the vulgar phrase, far more " evil" — " You're 
quite wrong there, any way. Better Christians' and 
honester folk never broke bread than that poor lad's 
parents ; ay, and better parents too, though maybe a 
thought too proud and fond of him, for pride will have a 
downfall ; and I always told 'em Joe wanted a tight hand 
over him ; but it's too late now. God help 'em, poor 
souls, I say I" 

" Amen ! mistress," quoth Andrew. " Nevertheless, 
punishment is wholesome, for example's sake ; and it's 
right guilt, should suifer; and verily the parents of the 
lad, if they be, as you say, pious Christians, should rather 
rejoice in their affliction, and praise the Lord, that he is 
cut short in his wickedness." 

" I say, < praise the Lord!' indeed, that their only 
child should come to the gallows ! A fine thing to praise 
God on!" growled the woman — yet more indignantly. 
" I wonder what some folks' feelings are made of ? I say, 
< praise the Lord,' indeed !" 

"Woman!" snorted Andrew; but his expostulatory 



202 CHURCHYARDS CHAP. XIV. 

sentence was cut short by her angry vehemence, as she 
continued, in a taunting key — 

" Maybe you'll like, ' for example's sake,' to see that 
pretty lamb by your side with the rope round his neck 
some day. Maybe you'll praise the Lord for that, 
master!" and so saying-, she stretched out her long bony 
arm, and laid her hand on the shoulder of the shuddering 
child ; and when Andrew turned to rebuke her, and 
their eyes met, the expression of hers struck into his 
heart such a sensation of strange uneasiness, as caused 
him suddenly to draw the child beyond her reach ; and 
long afterwards, for many and many a day, and when 
months and years had passed by, and the recollection of 
that scene had faded, and no particular circumstance 
occurred to revive it, that woman's face, and that peculiar 
look, would come across him, and again strike to his 
heart the same feeling of indefinite horror, which im- 
pelled him, at the moment he actually encountered it, 
to snatch the boy from within the evil influence of her 
touch. 

But, at the time, that painful sensation was as momen- 
tary as vivid, for all further altercation was cut short by 
the pressure of the living mass, among which a general 
agitation, and a low confused murmur took place, as it 
fell back on either side, to make way for the fatal cart. 
The woman left off in the midst of a volley of revilings 
on Andrew's hardheartedness, in her anxiety to press 
back in time to secure a snug place near the gibbet, where 
she might see all in comfort. And Andrew held his peace, 
and drew still closer to the road-side, as the cart came 
slowly on ; and as vulgar curiosity was not one of his 
besetting sins — (Andrew Cleaves's was by no means a 
vulgar mind, nor was his character a common one) — his 
eye followed not the broad eager gaze of the multitude, 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 203 

but looking- downward, with serious, and not unbecoming 
solemnity, he raised his head only for an instant, and as 
it were involuntarily, just as the cart came abreast of his 
own vehicle, and the wretched criminal was so near, that 
in the deep stillness which had succeeded that prelusive 
murmur, his short, quick, laborious respiration, broken at 
intervals by a convulsive sob, was distinctly audible ; and 
transient as was Andrew's involuntary glance, the object 
it encountered was not one soon to be forgotten. It was 
a sight, indeed, to touch a father's heart ; and who could 
have beheld it unmoved ? 

The culprit, as has been said, was a mere youth. He 
appeared scarcely to have numbered twenty summers. 
A tall slim lad he was, almost effeminate in the trans- 
parent delicacy of his complexion, the profusion of fair 
silky hair which waved in disorder about his blue-veined 
temples, and the sickly whiteness of his long thin hands, 
one of which hung lifelessly over the side of the cart, in 
which he sat erect and stiffened, as if under the influence 
of some benumbing spell, (his eyes only wandering with 
a bewildered stare,) and seemingly incapable of attending 
to the clergyman, who was seated by his side, occasionally 
reading to him a few sentences from the Book of Com- 
mon Prayer, and mildly exhorting him to join in some 
pious ejaculation, or penitential verse. 

At such times, indeed, the wretched boy looked for an 
instant towards the Book of Prayer, and his lips moved, 
but no articulate sound proceeded from them. Those 
quivering lips were parched and deadly white, but a spot 
of vivid crimson burned on his hollow cheek, and the 
expression of his large blue eyes, distended to an unna- 
tural roundness, was exceedingly ghastly. Occasionally 
he looked quickly and eagerly from side to side, and in 
one of those hurried glances his eyes met Andrew's, and 



204 CHURCHYAEDS. — CHAP. XIV. 

at that moment his frame was convulsed with an universal 
tremor, and he faintly articulated the word " Father ! " 
Right glad was Andrew Cleaves when the cart with its 
miserable burden, the Sheriffs with their attendants, and 
the whole dismal train, having- passed onward, the people 
thronged after them to the place of execution, and he 
was once more at liberty to pursue his way, which he did 
with all possible expedition, urging- on Dobbin with an 
energy he had never before ventured to exert on that 
steep declivity. But the sound of the agitated multi- 
tude, (that heavy, awful sound, like the swell of distant 
ocean,) was still audible, and Andrew speeded to get 
beyond it, and to reach C — — , now within the distance 
of a few furlongs. All this while not a word had passed 
between the father and son ; but just before they entered 
the town, Andrew looked round upon his child, who had 
remained, as it were, glued on to his side, both his little 
arms fast locked round one of his father's. He was very 
pale, and trembled like a leaf; and when his father spoke 
to him, and he tried to answer, the attempt produced only 
a deep choking sob, that burst out as if his very breath 
had been pent up for ages ; one or two hysterical catches 
succeeded, a broken word or two, the brimming- eyes 
overflowed, and then the little heart was relieved and 
lightened — Oh ! would the burden of elder bosoms was 
as easily breathed out ! And he slackened his grasp of 
his father's arm, and began again to breathe and prattle 
freely. 

Andrew fairly enough improved the opportunity of that 
awful sight they had just witnessed, by pointing out to 
his young companion the dreadful consequences of vice, 
and the danger of yielding to temptation, even by the 
most trifling deviation from moral and religious recti- 
tude. They had just reached the entrance of C , 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 205 

so the lecture was necessarily concluded ; but Andrew 
failed not to wind up his exhortation against the early 
inroads of sin, by inveighing, especially, against the par- 
ticular guilt of waste and extravagance, charging his son 
to take extraordinary care of his new clothes, not to scuff 
out his shoes by unnecessary activity and acts of wanton 
mischief, nor to squander away his pocket-money in idle 
toys and sensual indulgences. The latter charge was par- 
ticularly requisite, as Josiah took with him to school the 
capital of three sixpences in silver, and was to receive the 
stipend of twopence every Monday morning. He was, 
moreover, enjoined to keep an exact account of his expen- 
diture ; and his father presented him, for that purpose, 
with a long narrow ledger-looking account-book, all ruled 
and lined with red ink, under the heads of pounds, shil- 
lings, and pence. 

Andrew's last charge was abruptly put an end to, by 
the rumbling of his cart-wheels over the stones of the 
High Street ; and in two minutes they had turned out 
of it into the Market-place, then through a long, nar- 
row, back street, and at length drew up before a tall red 
house, with a bright green door, having on it a large 
plate of resplendent brass, whereon was engraved with 
sundry flourishes — 



" The Commercial Academy for 

Young Gentlemen, 

kept by the Rev. Jeremiah Jerk." 



All matters concerning the admission of Josiah had 
been settled and re-settled, over and over again, between 
the careful father and the Rev. Mr Jerk ; so the former 
had nothing more to do than to consign his precious 
deposit into the care of that respectable pedagogue, which 



206 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XIV. 

transfer was the affair of a moment, for Andrew had his 
private reasons for brief leave-taking- ; so setting down 
his son at the door of his new abode, (where the master 
took the hand of his little pupil with that peculiar ten- 
derness of manner so insinuating to the breaking hearts 
of new comers,) he laid his hand on the boy's head, and 
with an abrupt " God be with ye, my man !" was in his 
seat again, and off, and round the corner of the street, 
before the tears that had been swelling up into the little 
fellow's eyes had burst over their lids, and down his pale, 
quivering face, in all that agony of grief excited by the 
first trial of the heart — the first pang of the first part- 
ing. 

However cogent were the motives which decided 
Andrew Cleaves to decline the Rev. Mr Jerk's proffered 
hospitality, he was by no means in haste to get home 
that day. He had business to transact with sundry corn- 
factors and graziers, and various other persons in C , 

and altogether found — or made — so much to detain him 
there, though his concerns were wont to be more expe- 
ditiously transacted, that it was evening before he re- 
mounted his rumbling vehicle, and put Dobbin in motion, 
and quite dark before he reached the door of his own 
cottage. It was a cold evening, too — a cold, cheerless, 
bleak, March evening, and an east wind and a sleety rain 
had been driving in his face all the way home ; and as he 
approached the cottage, its bright, blazing hearth glowed 
invitingly through the low casement, and reflected a red 
cheerful light on the half-open door, and streamed forward 
like a smile of welcome along the narrow gravel walk to 
the entrance wicket. And yet Andrew was in no haste 
to re-enter his comfortable home — Some hearts may 
guess why he lingered on the cold heath — such as have 
felt the pang of returning to an abode, when all is as it 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 20? 

was — except — that the light of life is extinguished — the 
jewel gone — the shrine left desolate. 

But at last poor old Jenny came hurrying out at the 
sound of the cart-wheels, with her humble welcome, and 
wonderment at his late return, and offers of assistance in 
unharnessing Dobbin, that her master might the sooner 
come in and warm himself. Her well-meant kindness 
was rather gruffly declined, so she was fain to retreat 
withindoors, and leave " Master/' as she muttered to 
herself in not the best of humours, " to please himself 
his own way," (the most difficult thing in the world, by- 
the-by, to some folks in some moods ;) and when at last 
he approached the fireside, and she ventured a cautious 
question as to how he left the dear child, she was snapped 
off with an injunction to mind her own business, and not 
trouble him with foolish questions. So, having set down 
his supper on the small table already prepared with its 
clean white cloth, and partaken of the meal in unsocial 
silence, she was dismissed to her own hovel, with an 
intimation that Andrew would himself put away the 
fragments of the repast, and had no need of her further 
services that night. 

What were Andrew Cleaves's special reasons for 
ridding himself so impatiently of old Jenny's company 
that evening, and what were his cogitations after he had 
locked her out, and himself in, and resumed his former 
station by the hearth and the little supper-table, we can- 
not exactly ascertain, though it is to be presumed they 
differed widely from those feelings of snug satisfaction, 
with which, after the old lady had set by him his pipe and 
his small glass of ale, he had been wont to lock her civilly 
out, and re-seat himself in his comfortable corner, with 
the sweet consciousness that his child was sleeping peace- 
fully in the little adjoining chamber, and that he should 



208 CHURCHYARDS. — CHAP. XIV. 

himself lie down to rest on the same bed, when the 
cuckoo flung- open his small door in the old Dutch clock, 
and warned him it was time to retire. 

Very different must have been his cogitations the night 
he dismissed poor Jenny so impatiently — for when the 
cuckoo warned, he still sat on unheeding-, with his arms 
folded, his eyes fixed on the cold fireless hearth, where 
no spark had glimmered for the last half hour — the pipe 
unlit, and the small glass of ale still untasted. But when 
the hour actually struck, it aroused him from his com- 
fortless abstraction ; and, starting- and shivering with a 
sensation of cold to which he had been till then insen- 
sible, he hastily swallowed down his temperate draught, 
and taking up the end of the candle, now flaring in its 
socket, and moving with the noiseless stealthy step 
acquired by long habits of carefulness for the slumbers of 
his little bedfellow, he entered his now solitary chamber, 
and shut himself within it — and what were his thoughts 
that night, his feelings, and his prayers, may be guessed 
by some hearts, but perhaps not fully conceived by any. 

It would be hard to say whether the ensuing Saturday 
was more eagerly looked forward to by father or son. 
Certain it is, that when the morning of that day arrived, 
Andrew Cleaves was in no less haste to be gone, than when 
he had harnessed old Dobbin to the cart so expeditiously 

on the preceding Monday. But when he reached C , it 

was still too early to call for his boy ; for Andrew, with 
all his impatience, would not on any account have anti- 
cipated the precise moment when the half-holiday com- 
menced — so he trafficked away the intervening time at 
his different places of call, and drew up the cart at the 
door of Mr Jerk's academy, just as the " young gentle- 
man" had risen from their Saturday's commons of scrap- 
pie and stick-jaw — certain savoury preparations not 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 209 

enumerated in the catalogue of that scientific professor 
Monsieur Ude, nor perhaps recommended by the late Dr 
Kitehiner, but quite familiar to the palate of provincial 
schoolboys. Little Josiah, having- just risen from the 
aforesaid banquet, came running to the door at the sound 
of the cart-wheels, choking with joy and the last huge 
mouthful of tenacious compound. In a moment he was 
up in his father's arms, and hugging him so tight round 
the neck that Andrew was fain to cry out, 

" Well, well, my man ! but you'll not throttle your old 
dad, will ye ? Have you been a good boy, Joey ?" 

Joey answered with a second hug, and the usher, who 
stood smirking at the door, satisfactorily certified the 
same ; so the boy was sent to wash his greasy face and 
hands, and fetch his hat and little bundle of Sunday 
clothes, and then his father lifted him up into the cart, and 
turning old Dobbin, and giving him the sign of departure, 
a brisk cherup and a propelling stamp, in a few minutes 

they were fairly out of C , and on their glad way to 

the cottage. What were the boy's acclamations of delight 
at the first sight of its curling smoke, and dark brown 
thatch — and how, in spite of all Andrew's endeavours to 
set him right, he persisted in miscalculating time and 
space — and how often he fidgeted up and down on the 
seat — and how he took a heap of chalk in a distant field 
for the grey colt — and a flannel petticoat hung out to dry, 
for old Jenny in propria persona — and how his father 
went on pointing out the folly and unprofitableness of 
such crude guesses and rash assertions — and how the boy 
went on making them thick and threefold — those will be 
at no loss to conceive who have ever accompanied a lively 
urchin to his own home, on his first return after his first 
week's schooling. 

They may also picture to themselves the actual arrival 



210 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XIV. 

— little Joey actually at home again — smothering old Jenny 
with kisses — squeezingthe cat to a thread-paper — scamper- 
ing down the garden to see if his beans were come up — 
unhitching his hoop from the nail, and flinging it away 
to run and see whether the grey colt was in the home 
croft — scrambling upon the hack of his unbroken favourite, 
and racing round the field holding on by its mane, not a 
jot the worse — as a finale — for being pitched right into 
the privet hedge, from whence, half rolling, half scram- 
bling out into the garden, he came crawling up the gravel 
walk on all-fours, with that characteristic disregard of 
seriousness and propriety, which had so early evinced it- 
self, in despite of his father's solemn admonitions and 
decorous example. Fortunately, on the present occasion, 
Andrew was absent unharnessing the mare, and there was 
nothing new to Jenny in the uncouth performance. 
When the first ebullition of joy had subsided, (or rather 
when the animal spirits were sobered by actual exhaus- 
tion,) Josiah was well content to sit on his little stool 
beside his father, close by the bright warm hearth, while 
Jenny lit the candle, and set on the kettle, and brought 
out the cups and saucers, and Josiah's own basin, full of 
the red cow's milk, set by for him at that evening's milk- 
ing, and the hot oat-cake, prepared for his especial regale. 
Then came the time for question and answer, and the 
father made minute enquiry into all school particulars, 
and his brow contracted a little, when Joey confessed that 
his three sixpences were gone ; yea, melted away, ex- 
pended to the last fraction; yet how, he could by no means 
explain even to his own satisfaction, though he counted 
over and over again, upon his little fat fingers, sundry 
purchases of pies, crabs, gingerbread, marbles, and penny- 
worths of brown sugar — the enumeration whereof by no 
means tended to unknit the puckers in his father's brow, 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 21 J 

who for that time, however, contented himself with a 
short lecture on prodigal expenditure. But Joey's bosom 
laboured with matter more important, and his little heart 
swelled indignantly, as, with a quivering lip, and broken 
voice, he began to recount a long list of the insults and 
mortifications to which he*had been subjected. He had 
been the butt of the whole school, twirled about like a 
te-totum, while one pretended to admire the fashion of 
his clothes, and another asked if they were made by 
Adam's tailor, and a third, if his hat had belonged to his 
great-grandfather; and with that, clapping it on the crown, 
till his little face was buried therein, and the broad brim 
rested on his shoulders, they called him little Amminadab, 
and bandying him about thus blindfold from one to the 
other, bade him complain to his dad, old " Praise-God 
Barebones ;" and then the poor little boy revealed to the 
indignant eyes of his father and Jenny, an awful fracture, 
which, in the progress of these mischievous sports, had 
nearly dissevered one of his long coat-flaps, though the 
maid of the house had hastily tacked up the rent when 
his father called for him. Darker and darker Andrew's 
countenance had waxed, as he listened to the detail of 
these atrocities. Fearful was the contraction of his brow, 
the dilatation of his nostril, and the compression of his 
thin straight lips, when Joey, with an apprehensive side- 
glance and a suppressed tone of horror, pronounced the 
opprobrious cognomen which had been so irreverently 
applied to his own sacred person ; and by the time all was 
unfolded, he had wellnigh made up his mind that his son 
should return no more to the companionship of such 
daring reprobates. But Andrew Cleaves was seldom 
guilty of hasty decision ; and when his displeasure had 
time to cool, and he found reason to be satisfied on the 
whole with Joey's further report of school progress, he 



212 CHURCHYARDS. — CHAP. XIV. 

thought it expedient to gulp down the unpalatable part of 
the narration, and to re-conduct his son to the Rev. Mr. 
Jerk's academy at the expiration of the Sabbath holiday. 

That Sabbath had passed, like all former ones at the 
cottage, undistinguished by any additional gleam of cheer- 
fulness or innocent recreation ; and by the time it was half 
over, Joey began to think of the morrow and his return to 
school, with less repugnance than on the preceding even- 
ing. When Monday came, indeed, home was home again ; 
and when the cart was ready, Joey ascended it rather 
dejectedly, consoling himself, however, with the thought, 
that Saturday would come round again in five days. 
Joey's calculations were correct for once : — Saturday 
came in five days, and he was fetched home again, and 
again returned rapturously to all its delights ; and this 
time he had no grievance to relate; no, not though his 
broad-brimmed beaver had been clipped to a porringer, 
and his whole raiment exhibited such woeful dilapidation, 
as to set at nought all Jenny's repairing ingenuity ; for 
both coat-flaps were gone — annihilated — irremediably 
abstracted — having been (as strongly indicated by certain 
suspicious appearances) actually singed off from the dis- 
honoured garment. Still, in spite of Jenny's dismay, and 
his father's indignation, Joey persisted that all was well ; 
and that he was now " very good friends with all his 
school-fellows ; that they were only very funny fellows ; 
and if they had burned offhis coat-tails, ajacket was much 
more comfortable and convenient, especially for 'playing 
leapfrog." 

In short, so perversely resigned was Master Joey to the 
docking which had been inflicted on his " good grey 
frieze," that it might have been shrewdly inferred he had 
had a hand in the operation. Happily for him, no such 
suspicion insinuated itself in his father's mind, who was, 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 213 

however, highly scandalized at the whole proceeding;, and 
carried into effect his determination of laying it before 
the Rev. Mr Jerk, when Josiah returned to school. A 
conference with that gentleman, had, however, the effect 
not only of prevailing on Andrew to pass over in silence 
the illegal curtailment of his son's week-day garb, but to 
permit the whole suit, as well as that set apart for Sun- 
days, to be so far modernized as no longer to subject the 
boy to the practical jokes of his mischievous companions. 

Happy had it been for Andrew Cleaves if his parental 
disquietude had been excited by no causes more serious 
than the aforementioned. But, alas! innumerable vexa- 
tions sprang up to embitter that weekly reunion with his 
child, at first so delightful to both parties. Every suc- 
ceeding Saturday diminished Joey's eagerness to return 
to his home, his former pleasures, and his dumb favourites. 
Every succeeding Sunday beneath the paternal roof, hung 
heavier upon him than the former ; and as his impatience 
increased, his weariness became more apparent, and the 
lessons of manly independence he had begun to learn 
among his playfellows, manifested their fruits in such acts 
of contumacy, as called down stern rebuke, and sometimes 
severe chastisement, from the hitherto indulgent father 
— though Joey still stood too much in awe of the latter 
to venture on very open rebellion. So he became sullen, 
and silent, and incommunicative ; and the unfortunate 
result of the father's undue severity, was to impress on 
the mind of the hitherto thoughtless and frank-tempered 
boy, the expediency of keeping to himself those idle 
frolics and venial trespasses, which, on his first return 
from school, had been boasted of, and confessed with an 
innocent confidence it should have been Andrew's care 
to confirm and encourage. 

But Andrew, with all his fancied wisdom, was profoundly 



214 CHURCHYARDS. — CHAP. XIV. 

ignorant of the milder arts of training ; and it was really 
on Scripture principles, erroneously applied, that, as the 
boy grew older, he thought it his duty to treat him with 
increased severity, and to rebuke, with uncompromising 
sternness, those venial lapses which, when candidly con- 
fessed, should have been commented on with lenient 
gentleness. Very soon Josiah learned to anticipate the 
Sabbath holiday as a weekly penance ; and ample amends 
did he make himself for its dulness and restraint, when 
he found himself once more among his merry mates in 
the school playground ; and very soon Joey was noted 
for the most daring spirit of the whole riotous assem- 
blage — " Up to every thing" — the leader of all conspira- 
cies — the foremost in all mischief — the most enterprizing 
in all dangers — and, what was more remarkable, the 
readiest and most ingenious at equivocations, inventions, 
and even unblushing falsehood, in cases of suspicion or 
detection. But as he became more knowing in all evil 
experience, his home deportment gradually manifested 
such an alteration as rejoiced the heart, and at length 
excited the highest hopes, of the credulous parent, whose 
boasted penetration failed him in detecting even the 
earliest artifices of infant cunning. 

Joey's natural shrewdness soon found out the vulner- 
able points of his father's character ; and that by affecting 
to copy his serious carriage and sententious speech, and 
now and then bringing home a new Psalm tune, or quot- 
ing a Scripture text, or relating, with well-feigned abhor- 
rence, some anecdote of a reprobate schoolfellow, or 
pleading his want of some useful book, the old man was 
even prevailed on to undraw the strings of his canvass 
bag ; and the young hypocrite's glee at obtaining sub- 
stantial proofs of his ingenuity, was enhanced by his 
public triumph when he rehearsed, in the circle of his 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 215 

thoughtless schoolmates, the " capital acting" with which 
he had " come over the old gentleman." 

In short, Master Joey's proficiency in these thriving 
arts was such as would have done credit to an older head, 
and the pupil of a more fashionable establishment ; and 
as his attainments in the ostensible branches of his educa- 
tion really kept pace with his supernumerary accomplish- 
ments, all went on seemingly as well as heart could wish ; 
and Andrew's ambitious views for his son's future adr 
vancement took firm root in the groundwork of these 
fair appearances. 

Andrew Cleaves was not a man to lay down plans 
with reservations — to make provident allowance for unseen 
circumstances — or to leave much to Providence. Neither 
did he ever decide in haste ; but having once come to a 
determination, it was seldom qualified with the mental 
proviso — " If it please God." 

So well considered, so fully matured, and so irrevo- 
cably fixed, were his parental plans. 

Though still abiding in his father's humble cottage, 
and (comparatively with many of his neighbours) farming 
in a small way, Andrew Cleaves had contrived to scrape 
together a sum of money, on which many a more dashing 
spirit would have set up a one-horse chay, taken out a 
shooting license, and drunk his bottle of port daily. But 
our farmer's ambition aimed at more remote objects. His 
savings were snugly deposited in a banking-house at 
C , where, however, they by no means lay in unpro- 
fitable security ; and on certain considerations arranged 
among the parties concerned, certain engagements had 
been entered into, that, at a competent age, the young 
Josiah should be received as a clerk in the establish- 
ment ; and from that office be further advanced, as after 
circumstances should warrant. Andrew uttered not a 



216 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XIV. 

word of these projects to any human being, but he brooded 
over them in his own heart, till the grand object seemed 
so secure of attainment — so built up by prudence, and 
foresight, and calculation, as to bid defiance to all adverse 
circumstances of time, and change, and even of death 
itself. Poor man ! And yet the uncertainty of life, and 
the vanity of worldly things, and the snares of riches 
and honours, were ever in his talk, and in his mortified 
seriousness of aspect. 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 217 



CHAPTER XV. 

Matters went on smoothly on the whole, till Joey 
had been full two years at school, and his third summer 
holidays were approaching. 

They were no longer anticipated with the same impa- 
tient longing which had drawn his heart towards home 
in his earlier school-days ; but still there ivere home 
pleasures, and home indulgences, not attainable at school, 
and foremost of those ranked the privilege of being mas- 
ter of his own time, and of the grey colt, now become a 
well-disciplined, yet spirited steed, and destined to suc- 
ceed to the functions of blind Dobbin, whose faithful 
career was fast drawing to a close. 

In the mean time, Joey was permitted to call young 
Greybeard his horse, and was indulged in the pride and 
happiness of driving it himself the first time its services 
were put in requisition to fetch him home for the Christ- 
mas holidays. But when the summer vacation arrived, 
Joey's return was ordained to be in far other and less 
triumphant order. It so chanced, that on the very day 

of breaking up, a great annual fair was held at C , 

which was looked forward to as a great festival by the 
boys whose parents and friends were resident there. 
These youngsters had vaunted its delights to Joey, and 
one especial friend and crony had invited his schoolfellow 
to go with him to his own house, and stay the two days 
of the fair. Now, it unluckily fell out that these iden- 
tical two days occurred at a season most important to 
Andrew — just as his hay-harvest was getting in, and 



218 CHURCHYARDS. — CHAP. XV. 

there was reason to expect the breaking up of a long spell 
of dry weather. So when Joey returned to school on the 
Monday, he was enjoined to tell his master, (with whom 
Andrew had no time for parlance,) that it would not be 
convenient for his father to fetch him home the ensuing 
Thursday, or indeed (on the account before mentioned) 
till the Saturday evening. 

Andrew, engrossed by his rural concerns, had not 
thought of the fair, of which Joey took particular care 
not to remind him, as he well knew, that were he to give 
the least hint of his schoolfellow's invitation, and his own 
vehement longing to accept it, his father would fetch him 
away at the risk of sacriOcing his whole hay crop, rather 
than leave him exposed to the danger of mixing in such 
a scene of abomination. 

Master Joey, whose genius was of a very inventive 
nature, soon arranged in his own mind a neat little 
scheme, which would enable him to partake the pro- 
hibited delights, unsuspected by his father or the Rev. 
Mr Jerk ; so, trimming up to his own purpose his father's 
message to that gentleman, he ingeniously substituted 
for the request that he might be allowed to stay at school 
till Saturday — an intimation that he had obtained parental 
permission to accept his schoolfellow's invitation for the 
fair days, and that a neighbour's cart would take him 
home on Friday evening from the house of his friend's 
parents. Joey had his own plans for getting home too 
when the fun was over, and of managing matters so 
dexterously, that the truth should never transpire either 
to his father or master. The latter was easily imposed 
on by the boy's specious story ; and when Thursday 
arrived, Joey, taking with him his little bundle of Sun- 
day clothes, and his whole hoard of pence and sixpences, 
left school in high spirits with a party of his playmates. 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 219 

Andrew Cleaves, meantime, got in his crops prosper- 
ously, and, exhausted as he was by a hard day's labour, 
set out on Saturday evening to fetch home the expecting 
boy. Poor Greybeard was tired also, for he too had 
worked hard all day, but he was a spirited willing crea- 
ture, and went off freely, as if he knew his errand, and 
rejoiced at the thought of bringing home his young 
master. So the farmer and his vehicle arrived in good 
time at the door of the academy ; but Andrew looked 
towards it in vain, and at the upper and lower windows, 
for the happy little face that had been wont to look out 
for him on such occasions. 

The servant girl who opened the door looked surpri- 
sed when Andrew enquired for his son ; and still greater 
astonishment appeared in Mr Jerk's countenance when 
he stepped forward and heard the reiterated enquiry. A 
brief and mutual explanation ensued — a grievous one to 
the agitated father, whose feelings may be well imagined 
— irritated as well as anxious feelings — for, on hearing 
the master's story, little doubt remained in his mind but 
that the truant was still harboured at the house of his 
favourite schoolfellow. But the intelligence promptly 
obtained there, was of a nature to create the most serious 
alarm. The parents of Josiah's friend informed Andrew 
that his boy had accompanied their son home when the 
school broke up on Thursday morning — they having 
willingly granted the request of the latter, that his play- 
fellow might be allowed to stay with him till an opportu- 
nity occurred (of which he was in expectation) of his 
returning to his father's the next evening : That after 
dinner the two boys had sallied out into the fair together, 
from which their son returned about dark without his 
companion, with the account that they hid been separated 
the latter part of the day ; but that just as he began to 



220 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XV. 

tire of looking- about for his schoolfellow, Josiah had 
touched him hastily on the shoulder, saying-, a neighbour 
of his father's who guessed he was playing- truant, insisted 
on taking- him home in his own cart, and that he must 
go that moment. This was all the boy had to tell — and 
that Josiah vanished in the crowd so suddenly, he could 
not see who was with him. 

Vain were all possible enquiries in all directions. The 
distracted father could only learn further, that his child 
had been seen by many persons standing with his friend 
at many booths and stalls, and at last, quite alone in a 
show-booth belonging to a set of tight-rope and wire- 
dancers, and of equestrian performers — with some of 
these he seemed to have made acquaintance, and among 
them he was last observed. That troop had quitted 

C the same night, and having fine horses and a light 

caravan, must have travelled expeditiously, and were 
probably already at a considerable distance ; nor could 
the route they had taken be easily ascertained after they 
had passed through the turnpike, which had been about 
ten o'clock at night. Now it was that Andrew Cleaves, 
in the agony of his distress, would have given half his 
worldly substance to have obtained tidings — but the least 
favourable tidings of his lost child ; for dreadful thoughts 
and fearful imaginings suggested themselves, aggravating 
the horrors of uncertainty. There was no positive rea- 
son for belief that the boy had left C with the 

itinerant troop. A rapid river ran by the town — there 
was a deep canal also — and then the wharf, crowded with 

barges — between which But Andrew was not one 

to brood over imaginary horrors in hopeless inaction, and 
the opinion of others encouraged him to hope that his 
son had only been lured away by the equestrian mounte- 
banks. With the earliest dawn, therefore, mounted on 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 221 

the young powerful grey, he was away from C , and 

(according to the clew at last obtained) in the track of 
the itinerants. But they were far in advance, and, soon 
after passing through the turnpike, had struck into cross 
country roads and by-ways, so that the pursuit was ne- 
cessarily tedious and difficult, and Andrew was unused to 
travelling, having never before adventured twenty miles 
beyond his native place. No wonder that he was sorely 
jaded in body and mind, when he put up for the night at 

a small town about thirty miles from C , through 

which he ascertained, however, that the caravan, with its 
escort, had passed early in the morning of the preceding 
day — that the troop, while stopping to bait, had talked of 
Carlisle as their next place of exhibition ; and had, in 
fact, struck into the great north road when they proceeded 
on their way. Andrew could gain no intelligence whe- 
ther a boy, such as he described, accompanied the party. 
It having been very early morning when they baited 
their horses at , the females of the band and child- 
ren (if there were any) were still asleep within the closed 
caravan. 

So Andrew proceeded with a heavy heart, but a spirit 
of determined perseverance — and his pursuit (now that 
he was fairly on the track of its object) was comparatively 
easy. 

About mid-day, in mercy to his beast, as well as to 
recruit his own strength, he halted at a hedge alehouse, 
when, having unsaddled Greybeard and seen that he was 
taken care of, he entered the kitchen and called for re- 
freshment. There were many persons drinking and 
talking in the place, and Andrew failed not to make his 
customary enquiries, which awakened an immediate cla- 
mour of tongues — every one being ready with some 
information relating to the troop Andrew was in pursuit 



222 CHURCHYARDS. — CHAP. XV. 

of. Such was the confusion of voices, however, that he 
was kept for a moment in painful suspense, when a de- 
cent-looking- woman, (apparently a traveller,) who was 
taking- her quiet meal in one corner of the kitchen, came 
hastily forward, and laying- her hand on Andrew's arm, 
and looking- earnestly in his face, exclaimed — " After 
what are ye asking-, master ? Is it for a stray lamb 
ye're seeking — and hav'n't I seen your face before?" — 
Andrew shook like a leaf. The man of stern temper and 
iron nerves shook like an aspen-leaf, while the woman 
looked, and spake thus earnestly : — " Have ye — have ye 
found him ? — have ye found my boy ? " was all he could 
stammer out. " You are a stranger to me; but God 
bless you, if you can give me back my boy !" 

" I am not a stranger to you, Andrew Cleaves ; and I 
can give you back your boy ; and the Lord bless him 
for your sake, for you saved me and mine, and took us in 
and gave us meat and drink when we were ready to 
perish. Come your ways with me, Andrew Cleaves — 
but, soft and quiet — for the laddie's in a precious sleep. 
He has come to hurt, but the Merciful watched over 
him." 

So she led him softly and silently through a little back 
kitchen, and up a steep dark stair, into a small upper 
chamber, before the casement of which a checked apron 
was pinned up, to exclude the full glow of light from 
the uncurtained bed. Softly and silently, with finger on 
lip, she drew him on to the side of that humble bed, and 
there, indeed, fast locked in sleep, in sweet untroubled 
sleep, lay the little thoughtless one, whose disappearance 
had inflicted such cruel anxiety and distress. 

The boy was sleeping sweetly, but his cheeks and lips 
were almost colourless ; a thin linen bandage was bound 
round his head ; and over one temple a soft, silky curl, 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 223 

that had escaped from the fillet, was dyed and stuck to- 
gether with clotted blood. Andrew shuddered at the 
sight ; but the woman repeated her whispered assurance, 
that there was no serious injury. Then the father 
kneeled softly down beside his recovered darling, his 
head bent low over the little tremulous hand that lay 
upon the patchwork-counterpane. Almost involuntarily 
his lips approached it ; but he refrained himself by a 
strong effort, and, throwing back his head, lifted his eyes 
to Heaven in an ecstasy of silent gratitude; and, one 
after another, large tears rolled down over the rough, 
hard-featured face, every muscle of which quivered with 
powerful emotion. Yes, for the first time in his life 
Andrew Cleaves poured out his whole heart in gratitude 
to his Creator in the presence of a fellow-creature ; and 
when he arose from his knees, so far was he from shrink- 
ing abased and humiliated from the eyes that were upon 
him, that, turning to the woman, and strongly grasping 
her hands in his own, he said, softly and solemnly — 
" Now I see of a truth that a man may cast his bread 
upon the waters, and find it again after many days. I 
gave thee and thine orphan babe a little food and a 
night's shelter, and thou restorest to me my child. 
While Andrew Cleaves has a morsel of bread, thou shalt 
share it with him." And he was as good as his word ; 
and from that hour, whatever were in other respects his 
still inveterate habits of thrift and parsimony, Andrew 
Cleaves was never known to " turn away his face from 
any poor man." 

By degrees all particulars relating to Joey's disappear- 
ance and his providential recovery, were circumstantially 
unravelled. The little varlet had been accidentally sepa- 
rated from his schoolfellow, and while gaping about the 
fair in search of him, had straggled towards the large 



224 CHURCHYARDS CHAP. XV. 

show-booth, where feats of rope-dancing- and horseman- 
ship were exhibited. Long he stood absorbed in wonder- 
ing- admiration of the merry-andrew's antic gestures, and 
the spangled draperies and nodding plumes of the beautiful 
lady who condescended to twirl the tambourine, and foot 
it aloft, <f with nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles," 
for the recreation of the gaping multitude. Others of 
the troop came in and out on the airy stage, inviting the 
" ladies and gentlemen" below, to walk in, with such 
bland and cordial hospitality, that Joey thought it quite 
irresistible, and was just stepping under the canvass when 
a strong arm arrested him, and a splendid gentleman, in 
scarlet and gold, demanded the price of entrance. That 
was not at Joey's command, for all his copper hoard was 
already expended; so he was shrinking back, abashed and 
mortified, when one or two idlers of the band, probably 
seeing something promising about him, and that he was 
a pretty, sprightly, well-limbed lad, whose appearance 
might do credit to their honourable profession, entered 
into a parley with him, and soon made out that he was 
playing truant at that very moment, and apparently 
blessed with such an adventurous genius, as, with a little 
encouragement, might induce him to join the company, 
and succeed to the functions of a sharp, limber urchin, of 
whom inexorable death had lately deprived them. So Joey 
was let in gratis ; and there he was soon translated into 
the seventh heaven of wonder and delight at the super- 
human performances of his new acquaintances. He had, 
as it were, an innate passion for horses, and the equestrian 
feats threw him into fits of ecstasy. Then all the gentle- 
men and ladies were so good-natured and so funny I and 
one gave him a penny-pie, and another a drop of some- 
thing strong and good ; and then the manager himself — 
a very grand personage — told him, if he liked, he should 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 225 

wear a blue and silver jacket, and ride that beautiful pie- 
bald, with his tail tied up with flame-coloured ribands. 
That clinched the bargain ; and in a perfect bewilderment 
of emulation and ambition — wonder and gratitude — gin 
and flattery — poor Joey suffered himself to be enrolled in 
" The Royal Equestrian Troop of Signor Angelo Galopo, 
di Canterini." 

Forthwith was he equipped in the azure vestments of 
the deceased Bobby, and indulged with five minutes sitting 
on the back of the beautiful piebald ; after which, on the 
close of the day's performance, he made one of the jovial 
and unceremonious party round a plentiful board, where 
he played his part with such right good will, and was so 
liberally helped to certain cordial potations, that long 
before the end of the banquet, his head dropped on the 
shoulder of his fair neighbour, the lovely Columbine, and 
in a moment he was fast locked in such profound slumber, 
that he stirred not hand or foot, till so late the next 
morning, that the caravan (in a snug berth, whereof he 
had been securely deposited) had long passed the small 
town, where Andrew had halted on his first day's chase. 

Joey's awakening sensations were nearly as astonishing 
as those of Abon Hassan, when he unclosed his eyes in 
his own mean mansion, after his waking vision of exalta- 
tion to the throne of the Caliph. Poor Joey, who had 
fallen asleep in the intoxication of supreme enjoyment 
and gratified vanity, among knights and ladies glittering 
with gold and spangles, himself radiant in all the glories 
of the blue and silver, and the fancied master of the 
prancing piebald — found himself, on awakening, stowed 
away into a corner of the dark, suffocating, jolting caravan, 
of course divested of his finery, huddled up on a bag of 
straw, and covered with a filthy horse-rug. The whole 



226 CHURCHYARDS. — CHAP. XV. 

ambulating dormitory, was heaped with similar bedding, 
from which peeped out heads and arms and dirty faces, 
which Josiah was some time in assigning to the blooming 
heroines of the preceding evening. At last, however, he 
satisfied himself of the identity of the lovely Columbine; 
and as she lay within reach, and had taken him under her 
especial protection, he made bold to pluck her rather 
unceremoniously by the outstretched arm, which saluta- 
tion had the desired effect of rousing the fair one from 
her innocent slumbers, but only long enough to obtain, 
for Joey, a sound box of the ear, and a drowsily muttered 
command, to " lie still, for a little troublesome rascal." 
So there he lay, half frightened, and half repentant, and 
quite disgusted with his close and unsavoury prison, from 
whence his thoughts wandered away to the pleasant cot- 
tage on the thymy common — his clean, sweet, little 
chamber, where honeysuckle looked in at the window — 
his breakfast of new milk and sweet brown bread — his 
own little garden and his bee-hives, and Greybeard, that 
paragon of earthborn steeds. 

But then came in review, the rival glories of the piebald, 
and Joey's remorseful feelings became less troublesome, 
and he longed ardently for the hour of emancipation. It 
came at last ; a brief and unceremonious toilet was de- 
spatched by the female group ; and great was Joey's indig- 
nation, when in lieu of the silver and azure, or his own 
good raiment, he was compelled to dress himself in the 
every-day suit of his deceased predecessor — a most villan- 
ous compound of greasy tatters, which, had he dared, he 
would have spurned from him with contemptuous loath- 
ing; but a very short experience, and the convincing 
language of a few hearty cuffs, accompanied with no tender 
expletives, had satisfied him of the danger of rebellion, 
and he was fain to gulp down his rising choler, and the 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 227 

scraps of last night's meal, which were chucked over to 
him, as his portion of the slovenly breakfast. 

In the mean time, the door and little square window of 
the caravan had been thrown open, and at last the machine 
came to a full stop on the high-road, by a hedge side, and 
the ladder was hooked to the high doorway, and the 
manager, who, with his spouse, had occupied a back com- 
partment of the van, descended to review his cavalry, 
while the equestrians snatched a hasty meal dispensed to 
them by their associated Hebes. 

There was the piebald shining in the morning sun, in 
all the perfection of piebald beauty — pawing and sidling, 
and curving inward his graceful neck, and small elegant 
head, as if impatient of the rein by which he was led at 
the side of a large Flemish-looking mare. At sight of his 
appointed palfrey, Joey was about to scramble down the 
ladder after Signor Angelo, when the latter most uncour- 
teously repelled him, with such a push as sent him 
sprawing backwards on the floor of the caravan, and more 
than revived his late incipient feelings of disgust and 
repentance. But now the whole party, females and all, 
held parley of no very amicable nature about the door of 
their migratory council chamber. The success of the late 

performance at C had by no means been such as to 

sweeten the manager's temper, or to harmonize the 
" many minds" he had to deal with; and loud, and surly, 
and taunting accusations and recriminations were bandied 
about, the most acrimonious of which, Joey soon gathered, 
related to himself, and to some dispute respecting him, 
which had occurred the preceding night, after they had 
deposited him in his luxurious resting-place. It appeared , 
that some of the party had even then begun to think 
with apprehension of the danger to which they exposed 
themselves by the abduction of a boy, whose father had 



228 CHURCHYARDS CHAP. XV. 

ample means to pursue and punish them, should he dis- 
cover that his son had left C in their company. 

These prudent suggestions were made light of by others 
of the troop : words had run high even then, and the in- 
sides and outsides had arranged themselves for the night 
in no very placable moods. During the many silent hours 
of darkness they had jogged and jolted in company: almost 
every one, however, in his secret mind, came over to the 
side of the doubters ; and when at last they halted and 
called council, each accused the other of having caused 
the present dilemma. From words they proceeded to 
rough arguments, and at length to something very near 
a general battle, in which their fair companions, descend- 
ing from " their high estate,'' took part so heartily, that 
Joey, finding himself quite unobserved, seized the oppor- 
tunity to scramble down after them ; but in his haste to 
reach terra firma he missed his footing, and fell headlong 
among the horses, already fretted and fidgety at the dis- 
order of their riders, so that Joey's sudden precipitation 
set them rearing and pawing furiously, and he — the luck- 
less truant ! — received such a kick on the head, from the 
hard hoof of the ungrateful piebald, as not only completely 
stunned him, but left him such a ghastly and bloody 
spectacle, as stilled in a moment the uproar of the con- 
flicting parties, and made them unanimous in their 
apprehensions of the serious consequences in which 
they might all be involved, should the accident prove 
fatal, of which there was every appearance. The child 
had ceased to breathe — not the faintest pulsation was 
perceptible. The panic became general, and the decision 
immediate, to consider their own safety, by moving on as 
fast as possible, leaving the unhappy boy (who was pro- 
nounced quite dead) on the grass bank by the road side. 
In two minutes the troop was in motion — in ten more, 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 229 

quite out of sight — and there lay poor Joey to all appear- 
ance a corpse, and soon to have become one in reality, 
but for the providential intervention of that poor woman, 
by whom Andrew Cleaves was conducted to the bedside 
of his recovered child. That woman (as she briefly ex- 
plained to Andrew on their stealthy progress towards the 
little chamber) was, indeed, the poor soldier's widow, who, 
with her orphan babe, had owed to his compassion, in her 
utmost need, the seasonable mercy of a night's lodging 
and a wholesome meal ; and she had never forgotten the 
name of her benefactor, nor thought of him without a 
grateful prayer. She had travelled far on to her dead 
husband's birthplace in the Scotch Highlands, to claim, 
for his orphan and herself, the protection and assistance 
of his kindred. Her claims had not been disallowed, and 
among them she had dwelt contentedly till her child died. 
Then she began to feel herself a stranger among strangers, 
and her heart yearned towards her own country and kins- 
folk ; and she wrote a letter home to her own place, 
Manchester, the answer to which told her, that her friends, 
who were too poor to help her when she was left a widow, 
were now bettered in circumstances, and would give her 
a home and welcome; and that, now she had no living 
hinderance, she might obtain a comfortable subsistence 
by resuming her early labours at the loom. So she set 
out for her native place, a leisurely foot traveller, for she 
was no longer unprovided with means to secure a decent 
resting place and a wholesome meal; and she it was, who, 
having so far proceeded on her way, had discovered the 
young runaway lying by the way-side in the condition 
before described. Her feelings (the feelings of a childless 
mother !) needed no incentive to place her in a moment 
beside the forlorn deserted child, whose head she tenderly 
lifted on her bosom, and parting off the thickly-clotted 



230 CHURCHYARDS.— CHAP. XV. 

hair, bound her own handkerchief about his bleeding 
temples. There was water within reach, with which she 
laved his face and hands, and had soon the joy of perceiv- 
ing- a tremulous motion of the lips and eyelids— and at 
last the boy breathed audibly, and his large black eyes 
unclosed, and he uttered a few words of wonder and dis- 
tress, among which — " Oh, father ! father ! " were most 
intelligible; and to the woman's gentle inquiry of " who 
was his father? and did he live far off?" he answered 
faintly, that he was the son of Andrew Cleaves who lived 
at Redburn. 

A second fit of insensibility succeeded those few words, 
but they were sufficient for the widow. Providence had 
sent her to save (she trusted) the child of her benefactor, 
and all her homely but well directed energies were called 
into action. Partly carrying him in her own arms, and 
partly by casual assistance, she succeeded in conveying 
him to the nearest dwelling, that small way-side inn. 
There he was put comfortably to bed, and medical aid 
obtained promptly — the longer delay of which must have 
proved fatal. And then a message was sent off to Farmer 
Cleaves, (a man and horse, for that poor woman was a crea- 
ture of noble spirit, and impatient to relieve the father's 
misery,) and then the widow quietly took her station 
by the pillow of the little sufferer. His head had under- 
gone a second dressing, and the surgeon had pronounced, 
that all would go well with him, if he were kept for a 
time in perfect quiet. It need not be told how rigidly 
that injunction was attended to, nor how carefully, when 
he was in a state to be removed, the father conveyed back 
his truant child to the shelter of his own peaceful cottage 
— nor how anxiously he was nursed up there to decided 
convalescence — nor how solemnly, yet tenderly, when the 
boy was so far recovered, his father set before him the 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 231 

magnitude of his offence, and the fatal consequences which 
had so nearly resulted from it. Joey wept sore, and 
looked down with becoming- humility, and promised, over 
and over again, and really with a sincere intention, never^ 
never again to give his father cause for uneasiness or 
displeasure. 

Time travelled on — schooldays and holidays revolved 
in regular succession — and Joey comported himself just 
well enough to gain the character of a very good scholar 
in school, and a very idle dog out of it, except at home 
and in his father's sight, when he comported himself 
with such a show of sanctity and correctness, as was 
quite edifying to behold, and too easily lulled to rest the 
awakened caution of the still credulous old man. 



232 CHURCHYARDS. — CHAP. XVI. 



CHAPTER XVI. 

Andrew had continued his son at the academy to an 
unusually advanced period of youth, from the difficulty of 
knowing how to dispose of and employ him profitably, 
during- the interregnum between school and the earliest 
time of admission into the counting-house, where, at the 
proper age, he was to be articled. At last, however, in 
consideration of his really forward and excellent abilities, 
the gentlemen of the firm consented to receive him; and 
now the time arrived when the human bark was to be 
launched from its supporting cradle into the tumultuous 
stream of active life. Insomuch as it advanced him, in 
his own estimation, to the honour and dignity of con- 
firmed manhood, Josiah was elated at the change ; but had 
he been left to follow the lead of his own inclinations, 
to a surety they would not have hoisted him up with a 
pen behind his ear, before a dingy desk in a dark gloomy 
counting-house, there to pore away the precious hours 
he could have disposed of so much more agreeably. Had 
Joey been allowed to choose his own lot in life, to a cer- 
tainty he would have enrolled himself a bold dragoon, a 
dashing lancer, a trooper of some denomination — any 
thing that would have clothed him in a showy uniform, 
and given him the command of a horse ; but all military 
professions were so abhorrent to Andrew Cleaves, that 
he would as lieve have placed his son in the Devil's Own, 
as in " The King's Own;" and the boy was too well 
aware of his father's inveterate prejudices, even to hint 
at his own longings ; still less did he hazard the more 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 233 

debasing- avowal, that he would have preferred the situa- 
tion of a dashing groom to a station at the desk ; and 
that to be a jockey, a real knowing Newmarketjockey ! 
(he had heard a vast deal about Newmarket,) would have 
been the climax of his ambition. Happy disposition, to 
qualify him for the staid clerk of a commercial establish- 
ment ! But knowing the decree was irreversible, he 
submitted to it with a tolerably good grace, consoling 
himself with the reflection, that many young men so 
situated were nevertheless very fine fellows, and contri- 
ved, at odd hours, evenings, and holidays, to indemnify 
themselves very tolerably for their hours of durance vile. 
He had great confidence, moreover, that good fortune 
would introduce him to some of those choice spirits 
whose experience would initiate him into many useful 
secrets. 

Joey's expectations were but too well founded : tempt- 
ation lies in wait for youth at every turning and by-path ; 
but when youth starts with the design of voluntarily 
entering her fatal snare, the toils are wound about the 
prey with treble strength, and rarely, if ever, is it disen- 
tangled. Joey was soon the associate and hero of all the 
idle and dissolute youth in C ; the hero of cock- 
fights, of bull-baitings, of the ring, of the skittle-ground, 
of every low, cruel, and debasing sport that prepares the 
way, by sure and rapid advances, through all the grada- 
tions of guilt, towards the jail, the convict-ship, and the 
scaffold. 

Nevertheless, for a considerable time, Josiah contrived 
to keep up a very fair character with his employers — so 
clear and prompt was his despatch of business — and 
(with very few exceptions) so punctual and assiduous his 
attention to office hours. Beyond those seasons, their 
watchfulness extended not, and no glaring misdemeanour, 



234 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XVI. 

on the part of their young clerk, had yet awakened any 
degree of suspicious vigilance. 

The heart of Andrew Cleaves was, therefore, glad- 
dened by such reports of his son's official conduct, as, 
coming from so respectable a quarter, were in his estima- 
tion sufficient surety of general good conduct, and he 
was consequently lulled into a fatal security, not even 
invaded by any of those vague and flying rumours which 
generally lead the way to painful but important disco- 
veries. Andrew Cleaves had no friends — it could scarcely 
be said, any acquaintance — alas ! it is to be feared, no 
wellwishers. Beyond the cold concerns of business, he 
had maintained no intercourse with his fellow-men. His 
world was a contracted span ; two objects of interest occu^ 
pied it wholly — his wealth and his son. But there was 
no equipoise between the scales that held those treasures. 
He would not, in Shylock's place, have been in suspense 
between " his ducats and his daughter." 

Gold had been his idol, till superseded by that living 
claimant, to whose imagined good all other considerations 
became secondary and subservient, and for whom (looking 
to worldly aggrandizement as the grand point of attain- 
ment, though Andrew talked well of " the one thing 
needful") he continued to improve upon his habits of 
parsimony and accumulation, so as to deny himself the 
common comforts becoming necessary to his advancing 
years. But the hard gripe occasionally relaxed at the 
persuasive voice of Josiah's eloquence ; and that hopeful 
youth, as he advanced in the ways of iniquity, made espe- 
cial progress in its refined arts of specious hypocrisy, to 
which, alas ! his early training had too favourably disposed 
him. 

It would be a tedious and distasteful task minutely to 
trace the progressive steps by which Josiah attained that 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 235 

degree of hardened profligacy which marked his character 
by the time he had completed his nineteenth year — the 

second of his clerkship in Messrs 's counting-house. 

The marvel is that his seat on the high office-stool had 
not been vacated long before the expiration of that period. 
The eyes of his employers had for some time been open 
to his disreputable and ruinous courses. Their keen 
observation was of course upon him in all matters that 
could in any way affect their own interests ; and at length, 
on that account, as well as from more conscientious 
motives, which ought to have had earlier influence, they 
deemed it requisite to arouse the fears of the still-deluded 
parent, and to recommend his interference to avert, if 
possible, the dangerous career of his infatuated son. Alas ! 
it was a cruel caution, for it came too late. Too late, 
except to excite the father's fears to a sudden pitch of 
agony, which provoked him to bitter upbraidings and 
violent denunciations, and thus contributed to sear the 
already corrupted heart of the insensate youth, and to 
accelerate his desperate plunge into irretrievable ruin. 

It was well known at C that Andrew Cleaves had 

(for a man in his station) amassed considerable wealth, and 
that his idolized and only son would inherit it undivided ; 
and in that confidence there were not wanting venturous 
and unprincipled persons who not only gave him credit 
in the way of trade, to an unwarrantable amount, but 
even advanced him loans from time to time, on the spe- 
culation of future repayment with usurious interest. By 
such means, added to the not inconsiderable gratifications 
he at different times obtained from his father, under vari- 
ous specious pretences, Josiah had been enabled to run a 
course of low and profligate extravagance, far exceeding 
any thing which had entered into the suspicions of his 
employers, or the tardily aroused apprehensions of the 



236 CHURCHYARDS. — CHAP. XVI. 

distressed father. Among- the threats of that abused 
parent, there was one which Josiah doubted not would he 

promptly executed — a public advertisement in C , 

that Andrew Cleaves held himself nowise answerable for 
any debts his son might think proper to contract — an 
exposure which would not only cut him off from all 
future supplies, but probably create such distrust of his 
hitherto undoubted heirship, as to bring forward all the 
claims standing- against him, and irritate his father beyond 
hope of accommodation. 

But the idea of absconding from C had long been 

familiar to Josiah, and he had for some time past been 
connected with a set of characters, whose daring exploits, 
and communication with the metropolis, had fired his am- 
bition to emulate the former, and to transfer his genius 
to a theatre more worthv its enterprising- capabilities. Yet 
Josiah's heart was not quite hardened. It had not lost 
all pleasant remembrance of his days of boyish happiness 
— of the indulgences of his father's dwelling, and of the 
repressed, but ill-dissembled fondness of that doting parent, 
whose proud and severe nature had even accommodated 
itself to offices of womanly tenderness, for the feeble 
infant left motherless to his care. 

There were still moments — even in the circle of his 
vile associates — even in the concerting their infamous 
schemes — or while the profane oath still volleyed from 
his tongue, and the roar of riotous mirth and licentious 
song resounded — there were moments, even then, when 
recollection of better things flashed across his mind like 
angels' wings athwart the pit of darkness, and he shud- 
dered with transient horror at the appalling contrast. 

The faint gleam of such a mental vision still haunted 
him at the breaking up of a riotous meeting, during which 
he had finally arranged with his confederates the plan 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 237 

which was to remove him (probably for ever!) from 

C and its vicinity. " But I will have one more look 

at the old place before I go," suddenly resolved Josiah, 
when he had parted from his companions. " At least I 
will have a last look at the outside of the walls — though 
I cant go in — I cant face the old man before I leave 
him ; he would not pass over what can't be undone — and 
there's no going back now — but I will see the old place 
again." 

It was late on the Sabbath evening when Josiah formed 
this sudden resolution; and so quickly was it carried into 
effect, that it wanted near an hour to midnight when he 
reached the low boundary of the cottage garden. 

It was a calm delicious night of ripening spring — so 
hushed and still, you might have heard the falling showers 
of overblown apple blossoms. Josiah lingered for a mo- 
ment with his hand on the garden wicket ; and while he 
thus tarried, was startled by a sudden but familiar sound 
from the adjacent close. It was the winnying salutation 
of his old friend Greybeard, who having perceived with 
fine instinct the approach of his young master and quon- 
dam playmate, came forward, as in days of yore, to the 
holly hedge which divided his pasture from the garden, 
and poking his white nose through the old gap betwixt 
the hawthorn and the gate, greeted him with that familiar 
winny. 

" Ah, old boy ! is it thou?" said the youth, in a low 
hurried voice, as he stopped a moment to stroke the face 
of his faithful favourite — " Dost thou bid me welcome 
home, old fellow ? — Well, that's something ! " and a short 
unnatural laugh finished the sentence, as he turned from 
the loving creature, and with quick, but noiseless steps, 
passed up the garden walk to the front of the quiet 
cottage. 



238 CHURCHYARDS. — CHAP. XVI. 

Quiet as the grave it stood in the flood of moonlight ; 
its lonely tenant had long since gone to rest, and no beam 
from hearth or taper streamed through the diamond panes 
of the small casements. 

The prodigal gazed for a moment on the white walls 
«— on the honeysuckle already flowering round his own 
casement — then stepped within the porch, and softly and 
fearfully, as it were, raised his hand to the latch — which, 
however, he lifted not — only softly laid his hand upon it, 
and so, with eyes rooted to the ground, stood motionless 
for a few minutes, till the upraised arm dropped heavily ; 
and with something very like a sigh, he turned from the 
door of his father's dwelling to retrace his steps towards 
C . 

Yet once again in his way down the garden path he 
turned to look on the home he was forsaking. At that 
moment the evil spirit slept within him, and his better 
nature was stirring in his heart. The repose of night — 
its " beauty of holiness" — the healing influence of the 
pure fresh air — the sight of that familiar scene— nay, the 
fond greeting of his dumb favourite — the thought for 
what purpose he was there — and of the old man who 
slept within those silent walls, unconscious of the shock 
impending over him in the desertion of his only child — 
all these things crowded together with softening influence 
into the heart of that unhappy boy, as he turned a fare- 
well look upon the quiet cottage ; — and just then a sound 
from within smote his ear faintly — at first a faint low 
sound, which deepened by degrees into a more audible 
murmur, and proceeded surely from his father's chamber. 
Josiah started. " Was the old man ill?" he questioned 
with himself. — " 111, and alone!" — and without further 
parley he stepped quickly but noiselessly to the low case- 
ment, and still cautiously avoiding the possibility of being 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 239 

seen from within, gazed earnestly between the vine- 
leaves through the closed lattice. The interior of the 
small chamber was quite visible in the pale moonshine — 
so distinctly visible that Josiah could even distinguish 
his father's large silver watch hanging at the bed's head 
in its nightly place — and on that bed two pillows were 
yet laid side by side, (it was the old man's eccentric 
humour,) as in the days when his innocent child shared 
with him that now solitary couch. But neither pillow 
had been pressed that night — the bed was still unoccu- 
pied : and beside it knelt Andrew Cleaves, visibly in an 
agony of prayer — for his unpraised hands were clasped 
above the now bald and furrowed brow. His head was 
flung far back in the fervour of supplication — and though 
the eyelids were closed, the lips yet quivered with those 
murmuring accents, which, in the deep stillness of mid- 
night, had reached Josiah's ear, and drawn him to the 
spot. It was a sight to strike daggers to the heart of the 
ungrateful child, who knew too well, who felt too assu- 
redly, that for him, offending as he was, that agonizing 
prayer was breathed — that his undutiful conduct and sin- 
ful courses had inflicted that bitterness of anguish depicted 
on the venerable features of his only parent. Self-con- 
victed, self-condemned, the youthful culprit stood gazing 
as if spell-bound, and impulsively, instinctively, his hands 
also closed in the long-neglected clasp of prayer — and 
unconsciously his eyes glanced upward for a second, and 
perhaps the inarticulate aspiration which trembled on his 
lip was, " God be merciful to me a sinner I" Yet such 
it hardly could have been — for that touching cry, pro- 
ceeding from a deeply-stricken heart, would have reached 
the ear of Mercy ; and, alas I those agitated feelings of 
remorse, which might, " if Heaven had willed it," 

" Have matured to penitence and peace," 



240 CHURCHYARDS CHAP. XVI. 

were but the faint stirrings of a better spirit doomed to 
be irrevocably quenched ere thoroughly awakened. 

The tempter was at hand, and the infatuated victim 
wanted moral courage to extricate himself by a bold effort, 
while there was yet time, from the snare prepared for his 
destruction. Just at that awful moment, that crisis of 
his fate, when the sense of guilt suddenly smote upon 
his heart, and his better angel whispered — " Turn — yet 
turn and live!" — at that decisive moment a rustling in 
the holly hedge, accompanied by a low whistle and a sup- 
pressed laugh, broke on his startled ear ; and, as if a serpent 
had stung him, he sprang, without one backward glance, 
from the low casement and the cottage walls ; and almost 
at a bound he cleared the garden path and dashed through 
the little gate, which swung back from his desperate hand 
with jarring violence. 

Those awaited him without from whom he could not 
brook the sneer of ridicule — with whom he had mocked 
at and abjured all good and holy things, and with whose 
desperate fortunes he had voluntarily embarked his own ; 
and well they knew the hold they had upon him, and 
having at that time especial motives to desire his faith- 
ful adherence, they had dodged his steps to the lone 
cottage, under a vague suspicion, that if an interview 
should take place between the father and son, Nature 
might powerfully assert her rights, and yet detach the 
youth from their unholy coalition. 

u The children of this world are, in their generation, 
wiser than the children of light." They guessed well, 
and too well succeeded in securing their victim ; and 
before Josiah had half retraced the townward way, with 
his profligate companions, his mind was again engrossed 
by their nefarious projects, and all that had so recently 
affected him — the whole familiar scene — the low white 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 241 

cottage — the little chamber, and the aged man who knelt 
beside that lonely bed in prayer for an offending child — 
all these things had faded like a vision from his unstable 
mind ; and, secretly humiliated at the recollection of his 
momentary weakness, the miserable youth bade an eter- 
nal adieu to the paths of peace and innocence, and gave 
himself up to work evil unreservedly. 



242 CHURCHYARDS. — CHAP. XVII. 



CHAPTER XVII. 

The flood-gates of accusation and information once 
set open, innumerable tongues that had never stirred to 
give timely warning to a person so inaccessible and unpo- 
pular as was Andrew Cleaves, were voluble in pouring in 
upon him charge upon charge against the son who had 
been so lately not less the darling than the pride of the 
old man's heart. And many a one with whom he had 
weekly dealings, who had refrained from speaking the 
word in time which might have saved a fellow-creature 
from destruction, because their own pride was offended 
by the reserve of the austere old man, now sought him 
even in his lonely dwelling, to multiply upon him humi- 
liating proofs of his misfortune, and professions of sym- 
pathy and compassion that would have been gall and 
wormwood to his proud spirit, if the overwhelming con- 
viction of his son's deceptive and profligate conduct had 
not already humbled it to the dust. He heard all pa- 
tiently and in silence, attempted no vindication of himself, 
when the comforters obliquely reflected on his blind cre- 
dulity, by observing, that they " had long seen how 
matters were going on," that they " had suspected such 
and such things from the first," that they " had always 
looked sharp after their own boys, thank God, but then 
they were ordinary children — no geniuses;" for it was 
well known how Andrew Cleaves had prided himself on 
his child's superior abilities : and the self-sufficient man, 
who had so long held himself pre-eminent in wisdom, 
qualified to rebuke and instruct others, now listened with 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 243 

a subdued spirit to the torrent of unasked and impertinent 
advice, which sounded sweet and pleasant to the ears of 
the intrusive utterers, if it fell harshly and unprofitably 
on those of the unhappy hearer. 

On the Sabbath morning- immediately succeeding- that 
Saturday, in the course of which Andrew Cleaves had 
been subjected to this spiritual martyrdom, he went twice 
as usual to his parish church ; but during- divine service 
his eyes were never lifted, even during- sermon time, so 
much as to the face of the minister, and his deep sonorous 
voice mingled not that day with those of the villag-e cho- 
risters ; and, in going- and returning-, he shunned all 
passing- salutation, and, once within his own threshold, 
the cottage door was closed on all intruders, (for, pre- 
suming on his present circumstances, such were not 
wanting to present themselves) and no human eye again 
beheld him, till that of his undutiful child, drawn to his 
chamber window at the still midnight hour, looked upon 
the distress he had occasioned. Not in vain had been the 
long and uninterrupted communing of Andrew Cleaves 
with his own heart and with his God. Sweet to him 
were the uses of adversity, for they had not to struggle 
with a heart of unbelief, neither with one seared by vicious 
courses, nor debased by sensual indulgence. The spiritual 
foundation was sound, though human pride, inducing 
moral blindness, had raised on it a dangerous superstruc- 
ture. But when the hour came, and the axe (in mercy) 
was struck to the root of the evil, and the haughty spirit 
bowed down in self-abasement, then was the film, with- 
drawn from his mental vision, and Andrew Cleaves really 
looked into himself, and detected his besetting sins in all 
their naked deformity. Yes — at last he detected his pride, 
his worldliness, his worship of the creature, encroaching 
on that due to the Creator. He felt and confessed his 



244 CHURCHYARDS CHAP. XVII. 

own utter insufficiency, and laying down at the foot of 
the cross the burden of his frailties and sorrows, he sought 
counsel and consolation at the only source, which is never 
resorted to in vain. As he proceeded in the work of self- 
examination and self-arraignment, his heart relented 
towards his offending child. Had he yielded something 
of his own inflexible determination to the boy's known 
disinclination for the line of life marked out for him, the 
parental concession might have established in reality that 
gratefully filial confidence, the semblance of which had 
been so artfully assumed ; and the father's heart was 
wrung with its bitterest pang, when he called to mind 
the sanctified hypocrisy which had so long imposed upon 
him, and reflected that his own mistaken system and erro- 
neous measures, his own boasted example of superior sanc- 
tity, might have been the means of ingrafting it on his son's 
character. The fruit of that night's vigil was a determi- 
nation on the part of Andrew, to depart the next morning 

for C , and seek out his erring child — not with frowns 

and upbraidings, but the more effective arguments of 
tender remonstrance and mild conciliation ; to inquire 
into and cancel whatever pecuniary embarrassments he had 
incurred ; and, having done so, to say, " My son, give me 
thine heart !" and then — for who could doubt the effect 
of such an appeal ? — to consult the lad's own wishes with 
regard to a profession, as far as might be compatible with 
maturer reason and parental duty. So resolved, and so 
projected Andrew Cleaves during the sleepless watches of 
that Sabbath night ; but when morning came he found 
himself unable to act on his determination so immediately 
as he had intended. The conflict of the spirit had bowed 
down the strong man. He arose feeble and indisposed, 
and altogether unequal to the task he had assigned him- 
self. Therefore, as the delay of four-and-twenty hours 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 245 

could not be material, he determined to pass that interval 
in deliberately reconsidering- his new projects, and in ac- 
quiring the composure of mind which would be so requisite 
in the approaching interview with Josiah. Early on the 
morrow, however, with recruited strength, and matured 
purpose, he hastily despatched the morning's meal, and 

was preparing to depart for C , when the sound of 

approaching footsteps, and the swinging to of the garden 
gate, made him pause for a moment with his hand on the 
latch ; and almost before he could lift it, the door was 
dashed rudely open, and three men presented themselves, 
one of whom stationed himself just without the threshold, 
while the two others stepping forward threw down a 
warrant on the table, abruptly declaring, that, by its 
authority, they were empowered to make search for, and 
arrest, the body of Josiah Cleaves. Their abrupt notice 
fell like a thunderclap on the ear of the unfortunate old 
man ; and yet, for a moment, he comprehended not its 
full and fatal sense, but stood as if spell-bound, upright, 
immovable, every muscle of his strong features stiff as in 
the rigidity of death, and his eyes fixed with a stony and 
vacant stare on the countenance of the unfeeling speaker. 
And yet the man was but outwardly hardened by his 
hateful occupation. His heart was not insensible to the 
speechless horror of that harrowing gaze. His own eyes 
fell beneath it, and in softened tones of almost compas- 
sionate gentleness, he proceeded to explain, that in the 
execution of his duty, he must be permitted to make strict 
search over the cottage, and its adjacent premises, in some 
part of which it was naturally suspected the offender 
might have taken refuge, with the hope of remaining 
concealed till the first heat of pursuit was over. As he 
spoke, Andrew Cleaves gradually recovered from the first 
effects of that tremendous shock. His features relaxed 



246 CHURCHYARDS. — CHAP. XVII. 

from their unnatural rigidity, and by a mighty effort, 
subduing the convulsive tremor which succeeded for 
a moment, he regained almost his accustomed aspect of 
stern composure, and in a low, but steady voice, calmly 
demanded for what infraction of the laws his son had be- 
come amenable to justice. The appalling truth was soon 
communicated. In the course of the past night, the 

counting-house of Messrs had been entered by 

means of skeleton keys ; access to the cash drawer, the 
strong box, and other depositories of valuables, had been 
obtained by similar instruments, and considerable property, 
in notes, gold, and plate, abstracted by the burglars, who 
had escaped with their booty, and as yet no traces of their 
route had been discovered. Then came the dreadful 
climax, and the officer's voice was less firm as he spoke it, 
though every softened accent fell like an ice-bolt on the 
father's heart — His son — his only child: — his own Josiah, 
had been the planner — the chief perpetrator of the deed. 
A chain of circumstances already elicited — evidence irre- 
fragable — left no shadow of uncertainty as to his guilt, 
and the measure of it ; and though he was known to have 
had accomplices, perhaps to have been the tool of more 
experienced villany, his situation of trust in Messrs— 's 
firm, and the advantage he had taken of it in the perpe- 
tration of the roberry, deservedly marked him out as the 
principal offender, after whom the myrmidons of justice 
were hottest in pursuit. 

The miserable parent listened in silence to the officer's 
brief and not aggravated communication. He heard all 
in silence, with a steady brow, and a compressed lip, but 
with looks rooted to the ground ; and when all was told, 
bowing down his head, he waved his hand with dignified 
submission, and calmly articulating, " It is enough, do 
your duty," seated himself in his own elbow-chair, from 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 24/ 

whence he stirred not, and neither by word, look, or ges- 
ture, gave further token of concern in what was going 
forward, while the ineffectual search was proceeding. 
When it was over, and the officers, after a few well-meant 
but unheeded words of attempted comfort, left him alone 
with his misery, he was heard to arise and close the cottage 
door, making it fast within with bar and bolt ; and from 
that hour, no mortal being beheld Andrew Cleaves, till, 
on the third day from that on which his great sorrow had 
fallen upon him, he was seen slowly walking up the High 
Street of C — — , with an aspect as composed as usual, 
though its characteristic sternness was softened to a milder 
seriousness, as if the correcting hand of God had affixed 
that changed expression, and his tall, athletic form, 
hitherto upright as the cedar, bent earthward with visible 
feebleness, as though, since he trode that pavement last, 
ten added years had bowed him nearer to the grave. His 
calamity was generally known, and as generally commis- 
erated ; for even those whose contracted hearts, and mean 
tempers, had taken unchristian delight in mortifying the 
Pharisaical and parental pride of a man so arrogant in his 
prosperity, now that the hand of the Lord lay heavily on 
him, were affected by the sacredness of a sorrow for 
which there was no balm in human sympathy, and were 
awed by the quiet dignity of his silent resignation. As 
he passed on, many a hat was touched with silent respect, 
whose wearer he was personally unacquainted with, and 
many hands were extended to his, by persons who had 
never in their lives before accosted him with that kindly 
greeting. 

To those who addressed him with a few words of cor- 
dial but unavailing concern and sympathy, he replied 
without impatience, but with a brief and simple acknow- 
ledgement, or a lowly uttered — " God's will be done;" 



248 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XVII. 

and withdrawing himself, as soon as possible, from the 
cruel kindness of his comforters, he betook himself, with 
all the undiminished energy of his uncommon character, 
to transact the business which had urged him forth into 
the haunts of men, in the first nakedness of his affliction. 
To satisfy the demands of tradespeople and other inhabi- 
tants of C , who had claims on his unhappy son, was 

his first concern, as it had been his intention before the 
last stroke of ruin ; and that done, he repaired to the 

banking-house of Messrs ; and having ascertained 

the actual loss those gentlemen had sustained by the late 
robbery — and setting aside even their own admission, that 
others had assisted in the perpetration, and partaken of 
the booty with his unhappy boy — he proceeded, with 
unwavering inflexibility of purpose, to make over to them, 
without reservation or condition, the entire sum of his 
long-accumulating wealth, of which their house had been 
the faithful depository ; and the first faint sensation of 
relief which lightened the heart of the afflicted father, was 
that when he received into his hands, not an acquittance 
of his son's criminal abstraction, from which he well knew 
Messrs could not legally absolve him, — but an ac- 
knowledgement of such and such monies paid into the 
establishment, as due to it on account of his son Josiah. 
That payment reimbursed the firm within a trifle of their 
actual loss, and the deficiency was made good to them in 
a fortnight, by the sale of a few acres of Andrew's paternal 
farm — the little patrimony he had tilled and cultivated 
with the sweat of his brow, in the natural and honest hope 
of transmitting it entire and unalienable to his descendants, 
though destined, in his fond anticipation, to form but an 
inconsiderable portion of the worldly wealth to which he 
aspired for his young Josiah. The greater part of the 
land in the occupation of Andrew Cleaves, was held on 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 249 

renewable leases, — a term whereof expiring- about the 
time of his great calamity, he resigned the whole into his 
landlord's hands. 

The concern, though considerable, had hitherto been 
but the healthful and salutary occupation of his hale and 
vigorous age, and its annual bringings in were still added 
to the previous hoard for him who was to inherit all. 
But that great stimulus was gone for ever. For whom 
should he now toil ? — for whom should he accumulate ? 
For whom — to what, look forward ? " To Heaven," was 
the fervent response of his own heart, when the desolate 
old man thus mused within himself, but with earth what 
more had he to do ? " Sweet are the lessons of adversity.'' 
His elder sin — his abstract covetousness — was dead within 
him. The few paternal acres with which he had begun the 
world, would more than furnish a sufficiency for his con- 
tracted wants, and even afford a surplus to reserve for 
future exigencies ; and in calculating- those, he thought 
far less of his own desolate old age, than of the wretched 
exile, whose cry might come from afar to the ear of his 
forsaken parent, should disease and misery fall upon him 
and the asssociates of his guilt leave him to perish in his 
helplessness. It was a miserable hope, but still it was 
hope, and it lent the old man energy and strength to ply 
his rural labours, in their now contracted space, with 
almost undiminished activity. 

Weeks slipped away, — weeks — months — a year — four 
years. Four years had come and gone since the day that 
left Andrew Cleaves a worse than childless father, — the 
forlorn tenant of his paternal cottage, which, with its 
appendencies of barn, out-buildings, and a few fields, was 
all that then remained to him of his previous prosperity. 

Four years had passed since then, and the old man still 
lived. The same roof still sheltered him, the same small 
garden still yielded its produce to his laborious hands. 



250 CHURCHYARDS.— CHAP. XVII. 

But that small dwelling, and that poor patch of ground, 
and its adjoining slip of pasturage, a crazy cart, one cow, 
and one old horse — the favourite grey colt, now white 
with age — these were all the possessions that Andrew 
Cleaves could now call his own in the wide world. A 
cry had come from afar — the appeal of guilt and misery— 
and it came not unheeded. Again and again the father's 
heart was wrung, and his straitened means were drained 
to the uttermost to supply the necessities, or alas ! the 
fraudulent cravings of the miserable supplicant. And 
now and then professions of contrition, and promises of 
reform, served to keep up the parent's hope ; and, old 
and impoverished as he was, he would have taken up his 
staff and travelled uncounted leagues to have thrown 
himself upon the outcast's neck, and received into his 
own bosom the tears of the repentant prodigal. But 
under various pretences, the wretched youth still evaded 
all propositions of this nature, though his communica- 
tions became more frequent — more apparently unreserved 
— more regular and plausible — and at last came such as, 
while he read them, blinded the old man's eyes with tears 
of gratitude and joy. It was an artfully constructed tale. 
The eloquence of an itinerant preacher had touched the 
stony heart. Then came the hour of conversion — of 
regeneration — of justification — of peace unspeakable ! 
Pious friends had rejoiced over their converted brother 
— had associated him in their labours — deeming him a fit 
instrument to convince others, himself a shining testi- 
mony of the power of grace — and then points of worldly 
consideration were cautiously introduced. For him there 
was no safety,,in his native land ; but other lands offered 
a refuge — a decent maintenance — above all, a spiritual 
harvest ; and thither, by many unquestionable tokens, he 
felt himself called to labour in the vineyard. A little 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 251 

band of elect Christians were about to embark themselves 
and families for a distant mission. To them be was, as 
it were, constrained in spirit to join himself— and then 
came the pith and marrow of the whole — the point to 
which these hypocritical details had tended — to his kind 
parent, his forgiving- father, he looked for the pecuniary- 
assistance necessary to tit him out for a long voyage and 
distant establishment. And there were references given 
to "reverend gentlemen," and " serious Christians;" 
and letters confirming Josiah's statement were actually 
addressed to Andrew Cleaves by more than one pious 
enthusiast, blessed with more zeal than discretion, whose 
credulity had been imposed on by the pretended convert. 
This well-concerted story was but too successful. All 
lurking doubts were discarded from Andrew's mind when 
he succeeded in ascertaining that the letters addressed to 
him were actually written by the persons whose names 
were affixed as signatures — names long familiar to him 
in the pages of the Evangelical Magazines, and Mission- 
ary Registers. " Now may I depart in peace," was the 
old man's inward ejaculation, as, full of joyful gratitude, 
he despoiled himself of nearly his last earthly possessions, 
to forward what he believed the brightening prospects of 
his repentant child. The reversion of his cottage and 
garden and the small close, was promptly, and without 
one selfish pang, disposed of to a fair bidder, and an order 
for the sum it sold for as quickly transmitted to the un- 
worthy expectant, together with a multifarious assortment 
of such articles as the deceived parent, in his simplicity 
of heart, fondly imagined might contribute to the comfort 
and convenience of the departing exile. A few good 
books were slipped into the package, and Josiah's own 
Bible and Prayer-book were not forgotten. Involuntarily 
the old man paused as he was carefully enfolding the 



252 CHURCHYARDS CHAP. XVII. 

former in its green baize cover ; involuntarily he paused 
a moment ; and almost unconsciously opened the sacred 
volume, and on the few words written on the fly-leaf 
two-and-twenty years before by his own hand, his eyes 
dwelt intently till the sight became obscured, and a 
large drop falling on the simple inscription, startled the 
venerable writer from his fond abstraction. 

Day after day, the now comforted but anxious father 
expected the coming letter of filial acknowledgment. Day 
after day, procrastinating the tasks on which depended 

his whole subsistence, he was at C by the hour of 

the mail's arrival, and evening after evening he returned 
to his solitary home — his frugal, alas ! his now scanty 
meal, sick at heart with " hope deferred,'' yet devising 
plausible pretences for retaining the blissful illusion. 
But at length its fading hues were utterly effaced — no 
word — no letter — no communication came; silence, 
chilling withering deathlike silence held on its palsying 
course ; and, once more divested of all earthly hope, 
Andrew Cleaves leant wholly for support on the staff 
which faileth not in direst extremity. But the fiery trial 
had not reached its climax. The gold was yet to be more 
thoroughly refined, yea, proved to the uttermost. 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 253 



CHAPTER XVIII. 

Three months had elapsed since the last day of 
Andrew's short-lived gladness, when a rumour reached 

him which had been for some time current at C , that 

his unhappy son had been seen in the neighbourhood, and 
recognized by more than one person, in spite of the real 
and artificial change which had taken place in his ap- 
pearance ; that he had been observed in company with 
suspected characters, some of whom were believed to be 
connected with a gang of horse-stealers, whose depreda- 
tions had lately proceeded to an audacious extent in 

C and its vicinity ; and that two houses had lately 

been broken open under circumstances that evidenced the 
skilful practice of experienced thieves. The painful 
warning came not to an incredulous ear. That of the 
unhappy father was but too well prepared for the worst 
that might betide. But this vague perception of impend- 
ing calamity — this indefinite anticipation of something 
near and terrible — was, of all his painful experiences, the 
most difficult to endure with Christian equanimity. 

For many days and nights after he heard that frightful 
rumour, Andrew Cleaves knew not an hour of peaceful 
thought, nor one of quiet slumber. However employed 
in his cottage — in his garden — if a passing cloud but cast 
a momentary shadow, he started from his task, and looked 
fearfully abroad for the feet of those who might be swift 
to bring evil tidings. And in the silence of night, and 
during the unrest of his thorny pillow, the stirring of a 
leaf — the creaking of the old vine stems — the rustling of 



254 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XVIII. 

the martin on her nest under the eaves — sounded to his 
distempered fancy like steps, and whispers, and murmur- 
ing- voices. And once, when the night-hawk dashed 
against his casement in her eccentric circles, he started 
from his bed with the sudden thought (it came like 
lightning) " was it possible that he — the guilty one — 
the wretched — the forsaken — might have stolen near, 
under the shadow of night, to gaze like the first outcast 
Cain, on the tents of peace, from which he was for ever 
exiled?" — " Oh! not from hence — not from his father's 
roof?" was the old man's unconscious murmur, as, under 
the influence of that agitating thought, he flung- open the 
cottage door, and stepped out into the quiet garden. 
There was no sign nor sound of mortal intrusion — no 
footprint on the dewy herb-bed beneath the casement, 
betraying its pressure by the exhalation of unwonted 
fragrance. The old horse was grazing quietly in his 
small pasture ; the garden-gate close latched, and no 
objects visible on the common to which it opened, but 
the dark low pyramids of furze, distinct in the cloudless 
starlight. And soon that feverish fancy passed away 
from the old man's mind as the balmy air played round 
his throbbing temples, and he inhaled the wafting of that 
thymy common, and listened to the natural tones of 
midnight's diapason, and gazed fixedly on the dark-blue 
heaven, and its starry myriads — 

'-' For ever singing as they shine, 
' The hand that made us is divine.' " 

Ten days had dragged on heavily since Andrew Cleaves's 
mournful tranquillity had been thus utterly overthrown. 
During all that time he had not ventured beyond his 

own little territory. The weekly journey to C 

with his cart-load of rural merchandise, (the produce of 
his garden and his dairy,) had been relinquished, though 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 255 

its precarious sale now furnished his sole means of sub- 
sistence. But towards the end of the second week, finding 1 
himself unmolested by fresh rumours or corroborations, 
he began to take hope that the whispers of his son's re- 
appearance in the neighbourhood might have arisen on 
vague suspicion, or the slight ground of fancied or acci- 
dental resemblance. So reasoning with himself, the old 
man shook off, as far as in him lay, the influence of those 
paralysing apprehensions, and his morbid reluctance to 

re-enter the busy streets of C , where he felt as if 

destined to encounter some fresh and overwhelming mis- 
fortune. But though Andrew Cleaves's iron nerves and 
powerful mind had. been thus enfeebled by his late trial 
of torturing suspense, he was not one to encourage vague 
forebodings, or give way to pusillanimous weakness ; 
so, girding up his loins for renewed exertions, he loaded 
his little cart with its accustomed freight, and, as cheer- 
fully as might be, set off for C market. By the time he 

reached it, bodily exercise and mental exertion co-opera- 
ting with change of scene and variety of objects, had in a 
great measure restored to him his usual firmness and 
self-possession, and he transacted his business clearly and 
prosperously — provided himself with such few articles of 
home-consumption as he had been accustomed weekly to 
take back from C— — -, and once more set his face home- 
ward, inwardly blessing God that he was permitted to 
return in peace. 

As he turned the corner of Market Street, into that 
where stood the court-house, in which the magistrates 
were holding their weekly meeting, his progress was 
impeded by an unusual crowd which thronged the doors 
of the building, with an appearance of uncommon exci- 
tation. Andrew was, however, slowly making way 
through the concourse, when two or three persons obser- 



256 CHURCHYARDS. — CHAP. XVIII. 

ved and recognized him — and suddenly a whisper ran 
through the crowd, and a strange hush succeeded, and all 
eyes were directed towards him, as the people pressed 
back, as though, in sympathetic concert, to leave free pass- 
age for his humble vehicle. But the old man, instead of 
profiting by their spontaneous courtesy, unconsciously 
tightened his reins and gazed about him with troubled and 
bewildered looks. In a moment he felt himself the object 
of general observation, and then his eyes wandered in- 
stinctively to the court-house doors, from whence confu- 
sed sounds proceeded, and at that moment one or two 
persons from within spoke with the eager listeners on 
the steps ; and the words — " Prisoner" — and " commit- 
ted," smote upon Andrew's ear, and the whole flashed 
upon him. As if struck by an electric shock, he started 
up, and, leaping upon the pavement with all the agility 
of youthful vigour, would have dashed into the justice 
hall, but for a firm and friendly grasp which forcibly 
withheld him. Wildly striking down the detaining hand, 
he was rushing forward, when himself and all those 
about the doors were suddenly forced back by a posse of 
constables and others descending the court-house steps, 
and clearing the way for those who were conducting the 
prisoner to jail. And now it was that the poor old man, 
overcome by agonizing expectation, leaned heavily and 
unconsciously on the friendly arm which a moment before 
he had dashed aside with impatient recklessness. Cold 
drops gathered upon his forehead — he breathed short and 
thick, and his sight became misty and imperfect, as he 
strained it with painful intensity towards the open door- 
way. But it cleared partially as the expected group came 
forth. Three persons only — the middlemost a hand- 
cuffed, guarded felon, whose downcast features, haggard, 
and dark, and fierce — and shadowed by a mass of coarse 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 257 

red hair, were seen but for a moment, as he was hurried 
short round the corner of the court-house to the adjacent 
prison. But the old man had seen them — he had seen 
enough ; a genial glow diffused itself through his shiver- 
ing frame — and with a burst of renovated energy he 
clasped his upraised hands forcibly together, and cried 
out with a piercing voice — " It is not he — Oh, God ! it 
is not he" It was a piercing cry ! The prisoner started, 
and half turned — but he was hurried off, and the crowd 
had already closed in between him and Andrew Cleaves, 
who, recovering a degree of self-possession, looked up at 
last to note and thank those who had befriended him in 
his agony. Every where — from all eyes — he encountered 
looks of compassionate interest and distressful meaning ; 
and no one spoke but in some low whisper to his neigh- 
bour — and again Andrew's heart sunk with a strange 
fearful doubt. But had he not beheld with his own eyes ? 
— That dark gaunt countenance ! — Those fiery elf-locks ! 
— u That could not be my curly-headed boy — You saw 
it was not he!" the old man uttered, as his eyes wan- 
dered with imploring anxiety from face to face, and resting 
at last on that of the friend whose arm still lent him its 
requisite support, read there such a page of fearful mean- 
ing, as scarce needed the confirmation of words to reveal 
the whole extent of his calamity. But the words were 
spoken — the few and fatal words which dispelled his 
transient security. They sounded on his ear like the 
stunning din of rushing waters, yet were they low and 
gentle ; but his physical and mental powers were failing 
under the rapid transitions of conflicting passions, and 
overtasked nature obtained a merciful respite, by sinking 
for a time into a state of perfect unconsciousness. 

It needs not to detail the particulars of that last daring 
exploit which had been the means of consigning Josiah 

R 



258 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XVIII. 

into the hands of justice, nor of the progressive circum- 
stances which had drawn him back, step by step, with 
the hardened confidence of infatuated guilt, to receive 
the punishment of his crimes on the very spot where he 
had first broken through the laws of God and man. Nei- 
ther will we attempt to trace the journal of those miserable 
weeks that intervened between his committal to the 
county jail and his trial, which came on at the next assi- 
zes. Still less may we venture to paint minutely the 
first meeting of parent and child, in such a place, under 
such circumstances ; — on one side, the overwhelming 
agony of grief and tenderness, — on the other, the callous 
exterior of sullen insensibility, and sneering recklessness, 
and unfilial reproaches, " sharper than a serpent's tooth." 
It is too painful to dwell on such a scene — too harrowing 
to depict it. Rather let us pass on to the brighter days 
of that awful interval which was most blessed in its pro- 
longation. Light from above penetrated the depth of 
the dungeon. The prayer of faith prevailed. The sinner's 
heart was touched ; and at last the tears of the repentant 
son fell like balm upon the father's bosom. From that 
hour the gracious work was gradually perfected. The 
good seed, though mixed with tares, had been sown al- 
ready in Josiah's heart, and God gave time, in mercy, 
that the parental hand which had first sown it there, 
should, with gentle and dear-bought experience, revive 
the long-hidden and unfruitful germ, and cherish it into 
life everlasting. The father's labour of love had been 
ably seconded by the Christian zeal of the officiating 
chaplain, who was unremitting in his visits to the pri- 
soner's cell, especially at those times when imperious 
necessity detained Andrew Cleaves at his own desolate 
home, or forced him more unwillingly into the public 
haunts. But when (as was not unfrequent) Mr Grey 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 259 

found the father and the son tog-ether, it- was very affect- 
ing to observe with what a chastised and humbled spirit 
the aged man acknowledged his own deficiencies — his 
own need of instruction, and his own earnest desire to 
profit by the spiritual teaching, and pious exhortations, 
addressed to his unhappy son. Mr Grey's voice not 
seldom faltered with emotion, as he looked on his two 
hearers, the eyes of both fixed on him with such earnest 
reverence ! — of the beautiful youth ! — and the old grey- 
haired man ! and both so near the grave ! 

The awful hour approached of Josiah's arraignment 
before an earthly tribunal ; but his trial did not come on 
till the last day of the assizes. Its result was inevitable, 
had the cause been defended by the ablest counsel in the 
land ; but no defence was attempted — all had been pre- 
arranged between the father and son ; and when the lat- 
ter, in a low but steady voice pleaded " guilty" to the 
charge against him, and in spite of merciful dissuasion 
from the Bench itself, firmly persisted in that plea, and 
it was finally recorded, the aged parent who had accom- 
panied him into court, and borne up through all the pre- 
liminary forms with unshaken fortitude, bowed his head 
in token of perfect acquiescence with that decisive act, 
and yielding at last to natural weakness, suffered himself 
to be led away, as the judge arose to pronounce sentence. 

On the evening of the day preceding that appointed 
for his execution, far different was the scene in Josiah's 
cell, from what it presented in the earlier stages of his 
imprisonment. Its occupants were the same as then — 
the old afflicted man, and the poor guilty youth — and 
they were alone together, and now for the last time, and 
earthly hope was none for either of them. And yet in 
that gloomy cell — that portal of the grave was Hope, 
not born of this world, and Peace, such as this world 



260 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XVIII. 

" can neither give nor take away." In the father's heart 
a humble and holy confidence, that, through Christ's 
atonement and intercession, the pardon of his repentant 
child was already registered in heaven ; and in the son's, 
a more chastised and trembling hope, built up on the 
same corner-stone, and meekly testified by a perfect sub- 
mission to his awarded doom, far removed from the 
miserable triumph of false courage, and the presumptuous 
confidence of fanatic delusion. 

That evening was the close of the last Sabbath Josiah 
was to pass on earth, and the old man had obtained the 
mournful privilege of being locked up for the night in 
the condemned cell. Father and son had that day parta- 
ken together of the sacrament of the Lord's Supper ; 
and when the pious and compassionate chaplain who had 
administered that holy rite, looked in upon them before 
the closing of the prison doors, they were sitting together 
upon the low hard pallet, side by side, hand clasped in 
hand ; and few words passed between them, for they had 
spoken all. But the Bible lay open upon the father's 
knees, and the eyes of both followed the same line, on 
the same page, as the old man occasionally read, in his 
deep solemn voice, some strengthening and consolatory 
sentence. The youth's tall slight form was visibly atte- 
nuated, and his face was very pale — yet it had regained 
much of its sweet and youthful expression. The jetty curls, 
of which his father had been so proud, again clustered in 
glossy richness on his white and polished forehead, and 
as his head leaned against the old man's shoulder, a large 
tear, which had trembled on the long black fringes of his 
downcast eyelids, dropped on the sacred page, which assu- 
redly it profaned not. As the good chaplain gazed upon 
that youthful countenance, his own eyes filled with tears, 
and he almost groaned within himself — " To be cut off so 



ANDREW CLEAVES, 261 

young- 1" But repressing- that involuntary thought, as 
one of sinful questioning with Heaven, he addressed to 
each of his heart-stricken hearers a few fitting words of 
comfort and exhortation ; and having kneeled down with 
them in short but fervent prayer, and promised to revisit 
them at the earliest hour of admission, he departed for 
the night with his Master's emphatic words — " Peace 
be with you." 

The pale cold light of a November dawn yet feebly 
visited the cell, when Mr Grey re-entered early on the 
fatal morning, and all was so still within, he thought 
both slept, the parent and the child. Both had lain 
down together on the narrow pallet, and the youth's eyes 
were heavy, and he iC slept for sorrow;" but in age the 
whole weight falls within, and presses not upon the 
aching eyelids — so the old man slept not. The son's 
cheek was pillowed on the father's breast, every feature 
composed in angelic peace, and his slumbers were deep 
and tranquil as those of infant innocence. One long 
pale hand was clasped within his father's — in that hard 
withered hand which had toiled for him so long — and as 
the chaplain drew near, and stooped over the bed, the 
old man, who had been so intently watching his child's 
placid sleep as not to heed the opening of the cell, turned 
his head round with an impatient gesture, as if to prevent 
the disturbance of that blessed rest. Perhaps he also had 
slumbered for a while, and awaking with that young head 
upon his bosom, where it had so often lain in the beauty 
of childhood, his mind had wandered back confusedly to 
that blissful season and its fair vision of parental hope. 
But one glance round the walls of the small prison room 
at the person of the reverend visiter, recalled him to the 
scene of sad reality, and knowing that the hour was come, 
he cast upward one earnest look of unutterable supplica- 



262 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XVIII. 

tion, and softly pressing his lips to the forehead of the 
still unconscious sleeper, thus tenderly awakened him as 
he had often done before to light and joy; but now to 
the light of a new day, which for him, whose hours were 
numbered, was to have no morrow but eternity. And 
from that hour, till the earthly expiation was complete, 
Andrew Cleaves left not for one single instant the side 
of his unhappy son ; and having surely received strength 
from above, proportioned to his great necessity, not only 
sustained himself 'firmly throughout the tremendous trial, 
but soothed and supported the fainting spirit of the poor 
youth in his dishonoured passage through the valley of 
the shadow of death, whispering hope and consolation 
even within the portal of that gloomy gate, through 
which, according to the course of nature, himself should 
have gone first. And when all was over, his aged hands 
helped to compose in its narrow receptacle that youthful 
form which should have followed his own remains to a 
peaceful grave, and laid his grey head reverently in the 
dust. 

Andrew Cleaves had provided that his own cart, with 
the old favourite horse, should be in readiness at the 
place of execution, that Gallows-hill, at a short distance 

from C , where his first outset with the young Josiah 

had been so ominously impeded. Compunctious bitter- 
ness might have sharpened the arrow in his heart, had 
the absorbing present left room for retrospection. But 
to him the past, the future, and all extraneous circum- 
stances, were for a time annihilated. In comparatively 
light affliction, the heart takes strange delight in aggra- 
vating its own sufferings with bitter fancies, and dear 
remembrances, and dark anticipations ; but a mighty 
grief sufficeth unto itself in its terrible individuality. 

So absorbed, yet acting as if mechanically impelled 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 263 

while aught remained to do, the old man proceeded with 
his appointed task, and having, with the assistance of 
friendly hands, lifted into the cart the shell containing 
that poor all which now remained to him on earth, he 
quietly took his seat beside it, while those who had so far 
lent their charitable aid, prepared to accompany the humble 
vehicle with its mournful freight, and to lead the old horse 
— ah ! how unconscious of his charge — with slow and 
respectful pace, to the desolate home of his aged master* 
Just as the simple arrangement was complete, the old 
man, whose eyes had not once wandered from the coffin, 
lifted them for a moment to the face of a woman, who 
had touched him accidentally, as she stood beside the cart. 
The sight of that face was like lightning from the past. 
It flashed through heart and brain, and wakened every 
nerve that thrilled to torturing memory ; and almost he 
could have cried aloud — "Hast thou found me, oh, mine 
enemy ?" but he refrained himself; and groaning inwardly, 
let fall his head upon his breast in deep humility. Then 
slowly lifting it, looked up again into that remembered 
face, still fixed on him with an expression of unforgetting 
hardness ; and laying his hand upon the coffin, he said in 
a subdued tone, " Woman ! pray for me — the time is 
come." 

The old man looked up no more, neither spake nor 
moved, nor betrayed further signs of consciousness, till 
the humble car, with its charitable escort, stopt at the 
gate of his own cottage garden. Then rousing himself 
to fresh exertion, his first care was to assist in bearing 
the body of his dead son under the shelter of that roof, 
beneath which, three-and-twenty years before, he bad 
welcomed him, a new-born babe, and to place the coffin 
(for he would have it so) on his own bed, in his own 
chamber. Then lingering for a moment behind those 



264 'churchyards. — chap, xviii. 

who had helped him to deposit the untimely burden, he 
drew the white curtain before the little casement, glanced 
round the chamber as if to ascertain that all was arranged 
with respectful neatness, and stepping softly, like one 
who feared to disturb the slumbers of the sick, paused on 
the threshold to look back for a moment, and making fast 
the door, as if to secure his treasure, followed his friends 
into the outer room, and with quiet and collected firmness, 
rendered to all his grateful acknowledgments for their 
charitable services, and set before them such refreshment 
as his poor means had enabled him to provide. 

Neither, while they silently partook round his humble 
board, did he remit aught of kindly hospitality, nor was 
it apparently by any painful effort that he so exerted 
himself. But there was that in his countenance and 
deportment, and in the tone of his low deep voice, which 
arrested the words of those who would have pressed him 
to " eat and drink, and be comforted," and carried convic- 
tion to the hearts of all, that to his affliction One only 
could minister ; and that having rendered him all the ac- 
tive service immediately needful, they should best consult 
his wishes by leaving him to the unmolested quiet of his 
solitary cottage. There was a whispering among them- 
selves, as they stood up to depart, — and then a few lowly 
spoken, but earnest proffers were made, to return at the 
close of evening, and watch through the hours of dark- 
ness, (while the old grey head took rest in sleep,) by him 
whose slumbers needed no guardianship. But the kindly 
offer was declined with a gentle shake of the head, and a 
faint smile, which spoke more meaningly than words — 
and the old man spoke also, and thanked and blessed 
them, and bade them take no care for him, for he should 
lt now take rest." So they retired — slowly and reluctantly 
retired — and left him to his coveted solitude. 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 265 

But there were not wanting- some who, deeply moved 
with compassionate anxiety for the desolate old man, 
came about the cottage after nightfall, and crept close to 
to its walls with stealthy footsteps. And they told how, 
looking cautiously into the chamber of death, wherein a 
light was burning, they saw a sight which so strangely 
and powerfully affected them, that (rough peasants as they 
were) they could not afterwards speak of it with unfalter- 
ing voices. The coffin, from which the lid had been 
removed, rested, as they had helped to place it, at the old 
man's desire, on one half of his own bedstead ; and beside 
it, he had since arranged his mattress and pillow, and then 
(his head pressing against the coffin, and one arm flung 
across over its side) he lay at length in sweet and tranquil 
slumber. He had told them he should " now take rest ;" 
and, doubtless, that rest so taken, strange and awful as it 
was to look upon, was sweet and blessed, in comparison 
with all he had lately tasted. For him the bitterness of 
death was past ; and the nearness of his own change made 
of slight account the little intervening space of earthly 
darkness. Once more his son lay beside him on that 
same bed they had so often shared together ; and perhaps 
the moment of reunion with his forgiven child was already 
anticipated in the dreams of that placid sleep, which com- 
posed his venerable features in such unearthly peace. 

Four days afterwards, the remains of Josiah Cleaves 
were quietly and decently interred beside those of his 
mother in Redburn churchyard. Six labourers, formerly 
in the employ of Andrew, volunteered to bear the body 
to its last resting-place ; and two or three respectable 
persons, in decent mourning, walked behind the aged 
solitary mourner. And beside him none other was akin 
to the dead, of those who stood that day about that un- 
timely grave in Redburn churchyard ; yet was his the only 



266 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XVIII. 

face, which as the affecting- service proceeded, maintained 
unmoved composure, and his the only dry eyes that 
followed the descent of the coffin, as it was lowered into 
" the pit where ail things are forgotten." 

Andrew Cleaves had unavoidably incurred a few trifling 
debts during the time of Josiah's imprisonment, and the 
consequent relaxation of his own laborious industry. To 
discharge those, and the burial expenses, he parted with 
his cow, and with his last freehold, — that small old pew 
in the parish church, which had descended to him from his 
father, the heirloom of many generations, where he him- 
self (a small urchin !) had stood aloft upon the seat be- 
tween his father and his mother ; and when the old couple 
were laid side by side in the churchyard — where he had 
sat alone, upright against the high dark oak back a thriv- 
ing bachelor, " the cynosure of neighbouring eyes," and 
afterwards, a staid and serious bridegroom, with his 
matronly bride ; and then again, alone in impregnable 
widowhood ; and, last of all, a proud and happy father, 
with his little son lifted up beside him into the very place 
where he had stood between his own parents. Andrew 
Cleaves had said to himself, as he gazed upon the dead 
body of his son, that no after circumstance of human life 
could affect him with the slightest emotion of joy or sor- 
row ; but when he finally made over to another the 
possession of his old pew, one pang of commingled feeling 
thrilled through his heart, and moistened the aged eyes, 
that had looked tearlessly into his son's grave. 



ANDREW CliEAVES. 267 



CHAPTER XIX. 

The next Sunday after the funeral, Andrew Cleaves 
was at church as usual, but not in his accustomed place. 
Many pew-doors opened to him, as he walked slowly and 
feebly up the aisle, and many a hand was put forth to the 
old man's arm, essaying to draw him in with kindly 
violence ; but gently disengaging himself, and silently 
declining the proffered accommodation, he passed onward, 
and took his seat near the communion-table, on the end 
of one of the benches appropriated to the parish poor ; 
and from that time forward, to the end of his days, An- 
drew Cleaves was to be seen twice every Sabbath-day in 
that same place, more dignified in his sorrow and his 
humility, and perhaps more inwardly at peace, than he 
had ever been when the world went well with him, and 
he counted himself a happy man. 

Andrew Cleaves was an old man when his great 
calamity befell him. He had already numbered seven 
years beyond the age of man — his threescore years and 
ten ; and though he bore up bravely during the time of 
trial, that time told afterwards tenfold in the account of 
nature, and he sank for a time almost into decrepit feeble- 
ness ; yet still the lonely creature crept about as usual, 
and was seen at his daily labour, and at church and market, 
and answered all greetings and kindly queries, with cour- 
teous thankfulness, and assurances that he was well — 
quite well, and wanted for nothing, and was content to 
" tarry the Lord's leisure." But it was easy to see he 
hoped soon to depart, and all who spoke of him said his 



268 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XIX. 

time would not be long-, " for the old man's strength was 
going." Nevertheless, it was God's pleasure to delay the 
the summons, which could not but have been welcome, 
though it was awaited with submissive patience. Andrew 
Cleaves survived his son's death upwards of nine years, 
and not only did his strong and sound constitution in great 
measure recover from the shock which for a time had 
prostrated its uncommon power, but his mind also settled 
into a state of such perfect peace, as at times almost 
brightened into cheerfulness ; and never before had he 
tasted such pure enjoyment from the sight of the green 
earth — of the summer sky, and the sweet influence of the 
balmy air. 

The old man would have been a welcome and respected 
guest by many a fireside in Redbura village ; but at his 
time of day, it was too late to acquire social habits. It 
is often easier to break the bondage of a heavy chain, than 
to disentangle the meshes of a few seemingly slight cords ; 
neither may the tree, which has been warped when a sap- 
ling, be made straight when its green branches are all 
gone, and the bare trunk left scarred and rifted on the heath. 

Andrew still dwelt companionless in his paternal cot- 
tage, and rarely entered under any other roof, except that 
of the House of God. But, towards the close of his life, 
he was more frequently drawn into intercourse with his 
fellow creatures, than at any former period of his 
existence. He had continued to support himself, for 
four years after his son's death, on the sole profits of 
his garden, and of a little poultry that fed about his cot- 
tage ; with which small merchandise he still performed his 

weekly journey to C market. But though the " green 

old age " of honest Greybeard still yielded good and will- 
ing service, it was plain to be seen, that the crazy cart 
must soon drop to pieces, and many suspected that there 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 269 

was pinching want in Andrew's cottage, in lieu of the 
increasing comforts which should afford " a good soft- 
pillow for the old grey head." And, thereupon, much 
kindly consultation took place among the magnates of 
the parish, how to assist and benefit the old man, without 
wounding his last lurking feeling of human pride — the 
pride of living by the honest labour of his own hands, 
unindebted to parochial or individual charity. An op- 
portunity soon presented itself for the furtherance of their 
benevolent purpose. The foot carrier, who had long 

travelled twice a- week, to and fro, between C and 

Redburn, became disabled from continuing his office, the 
acceptance of which was immediately proposed to Andrew 
Cleaves, and that a new light cart should be provided for 
him by subscription, among those to whom the regular 
carriage of packages larger than could be conveyed by a 
foot carrier, would prove a real accommodation. The old 
man did not long deliberate. He felt that he Cvjuld use- 
fully and faithfully acquit himself of the proffered charge, 
and accepted it with unhesitating gratitude. But when 
there was further talk of purchasing for him a younger 
and more efficient steed than honest Greybeard, Andrew 
shook his head, in positive rejection, and said, smiling, 
" No, no, we must rub on together — the old fellow will 
do good service yet ; and who knows but he may take 
me to my last home?" — And then, for a moment, his 
brow darkened with a passing shadow, for the thought of 
the last burden of mortality drawn by the old horse came 
vividly into his mind. 

The new cart was provided, the venerable carrier in- 
stalled into bis office, and for five whole years (his 
remaining span of life) he fulfilled its duties with charac- 
teristic faithfulness and exactitude, and almost with the 
physical energies of his youthful prime. Winter and 



270 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XIX. 

summer — through frost and snow — and in the dog-day 
heat — through fair ways and foul — by daylight and twilight 
— Andrew Cleaves's cart was to be seen nearly about the 
same place on Redburn Common, at, or near, five o'clock, 
on the afternoon of Tuesdays and Saturdays, on its return 

from C . And it was still drawn lustily along by the 

same old horse, looking sleek and glossy, and round, 
quartered like one of Wouverman's Flemings ; and when 
some one, willing to please the master, would now and 
then pat the sides of the faithful creature, and comment 
on his handsome appearance, the old man would smile 
with evident gratification, and say — " Ay, ay, I knew 
what stuff he was made of — we shall last out one another's 
time — never fear." 

So said Andrew Cleaves, towards the close of a long, 
hard winter ; when, though the snow-drifts that still lay 
in every shady place, were not whiter than the once darkly 
dappled coat of old Greybeard, he showed little other sign 
of age, except, indeed, the rather more deliberate pace in 
which his kind master indulged him. But though the 
tardy spring set in at last, mild, warm, and beautiful ; and 
though its renovating spirit seemed to infuse itself ; like 
a renewal of youthful vigour, into the frame of the hale 
and hearty old man, it was observed that his periodical 

eturn from C became each time later and later ; and 

that, in spite of the young tender grass on which Grey- 
beard fed at pleasure — and the abundance of bruised corn, and 
heartening mashes, with which he was tenderly pampered, 
the sides of the aged creature grew lank and hollow, his 
fine glossy coat rough and dull, and that his well-set ears, 
and once erect and sprightly head, drooped low and 
heavily, as he toiled slowly homeward over the common. 
It was some evening in the first week of balmy June, 
that an inhabitant of Redburn, who expected a consign- 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 27 i 

ment by Andrew's cart, set out to meet the vehicle on 

its return from C . The man walked on and on, and 

no cart was seen approaching-, and the gloaming was dark- 
ening apace, and still no Andrew. 

But just as uncomfortable surmises respecting- the delay 
of the venerable carrier began to crowd into his neigh- 
bour's mind, the old man came in sight, not in his accus- 
tomed driving-seat, but walking by the side of his aged 
steed, which still drew on the cart with its lightened load, 
but evidently with painful labour ; and when Andrew 
stopped to deliver out the required parcel, his neighbour 
remarked to him, that though he himself looked stout and 
well as usual, his good horse seemed drawing near the 
last of his journeys. 

" Maybe — maybe," gravely replied the old man, laying 
his arm tenderly across the neck of his aged servant, and 
looking in the creature's face, as it lifted and half turned 
round its head with seeming consciousness — " Maybe, 
master ; but who knows, after all, which may go first ? 
Please God, we may yet last out one another's time." 

But he himself looked well, and strong as ever, and 
talked cheerfully all the rest of the way ; and that same 
evening, as was customary with him, walked his rounds, 
to give account of his multifarious commissions. This 
was on the evening of Saturday, and the next morning 
Andrew Cleaves was missed at church from his accus- 
tomed seat ; and no soul that looked towards the vacant 
place, but knew immediately, that the old man was either 
sick unto death, or that he had already " fallen asleep in 
Jesus." 

When divine service was over, many persons bent their 
steps towards the lonely cottage ; and soon the general 
expectation (fear on such an occasion would have been 
an irreligious feeling) was fully verified. The cottage 



272 CHURCHYARDS. — CHAP. XIX. 

door was closed and locked, and not a lattice open, but 
prompt admission was effected, and there the venerable in- 
mate was found sitting- in his old high-backed chair, before 
the little claw-table, on which was a small glass of un- 
tasted ale, and an unlit pipe beside the open Bible. It 
seemed at first glance, as if the old man were reading-, — 
but it was not so. One hand, indeed, was still spread 
upon the chapter before him, but his head had dropt down 
upon his breast, his eyes were closed, and he slept the last 
sleep of the righteous. 

Such were the village annals collected from different 
narrators, and at divers opportunities, during the better 
part of a long summer month, which time I employed, or 
as some would have it, idled away, in fishing the streams 
in the vicinity of Redburn, taking up my headquarters at 
the sign of the Jolly Miller. The substance of the story, 
and all its main facts, were, however, related to me by 
the loquacious landlady, on the first night of my sojourn 
under her roof. And she wound up her narrative with 
further particulars, including the ghost, which had excited 
such extraordinary tumult in the hitherto quiet village. 

Andrew Cleaves had been laid at rest beside the graves 
of his wife and son, the day before my arrival. The burial 
charges were defrayed by the sale of that poor remnant of 
his household goods which yet remained in the cottage, 
its once-abundant plenishing having gone, piece by piece, 
during the time of his greatest necessity. The old cot- 
tage itself, and its small domain, fell in of course to its 
reversionary purchaser, the village butcher. And there 
was no man to say him nay, when he likewise appropri- 
ated to himself, as make-weights no doubt in the scale of 
the dilapidated building, its few living appurtenances — 
Andrew's favourite breed of milkwhite poultry, and his 
only, his still surviving servant, honest Greybeard. Yes, 



ANDREW CLEAVES. , 273 

the poor old creature, fast drooping as he was, did indeed 
last out his masters time, and render him the latest ser- 
vice — for the old man was taken to his grave in his own 
cart, by his own aged servant — and that was the last task 
of the poor worn-out brute ; and when it was over, his 
new proprietor turned him loose at the churchyard gate 
into his own adjoining field, there to linger out the few 
intervening days, till that when he was destined to furnish 
a repast to the squire's hounds. 

The graves of the Cleaveses lay side by side under the 
churchyard wall, at that end of the cemetery exactly 
fronting the entrance. The old man had been committed 
to the earth on the fourth day from that of his decease ; 
and, some hours after the funeral, a person came hurrying 
about nightfall into the taproom of the Jolly Miller, 
affirming, that in his way past the churchyard, having 
looked accidentally towards the new-made grave, at its 
further extremity, he had seen distinctly a white spectral 
shape arise out of the earth, at the head of the dark fresh 
mound, which strange appearance gradually increased in 
size and stature, till he was afraid to continue gazing, 
and ran off to communicate the awful intelligence. 

Some laughed at Hodge's story, some bullied, some 
quaked ; but all clamoured and questioned, and finished 
by running off en masse towards the churchyard, headed 
by the bearer of wonderful tidings, whose courage being 
of a gregarious nature, became absolute valour with such 
comfortable backing. Yet did his pace slacken percep- 
tibly as he approached the burial-ground, and his followers 
pressed less impatiently upon his heels ; and the whole 
phalanx, by that time wedged into close order, retrogra- 
ded simultaneously, when Hodge stopped short with a 
theatrical start, and stretching forth his right arm, after 
the fashion of the Prince of Denmark, uttered not exactly 



274 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XIX. 

the adjuration of the royal Dane, but an exclamation quite 
as electric to his excited followers. 

" There he goes, by gosh !" quoth Hodge, under his 
breath. 

But all heard the awful words — and all were ready to 
make oath that, just as they were spoken, they saw 
something tall, white, vapoury, spectral, sink down into 
the earth at the head of Andrew Cleaves's grave. Some 
went so far as to whisper of having caught a glimpse of 
horns and fiery eyes ; and they might have got on to hoofs 
and a long tail, had not the less imaginative elders re- 
buked such idle fantasies, and condemned the uncharitable 
inferences therefrom deducible. 

" For why should the Evil One, designated by their 
fears, be permitted to visit the last earthly resting-place 
of one whose faith, while living, had baffled his subtlest 
wiles, and whose immortal part was now, it was humbly 
to be hoped, beyond the influence of his power?" 

But they> too — those sober witnesses — had seen some- 
thing — had caught a momentary glance of the white 
figure as it sank into the earth ! and their long-drawn 
jaws, and solemn doubts, and qualified admission, and 
pious ejaculations, struck more awe to the hearts of the 
cowering group than the bolder asseverations of the first 
speakers. Certain it is, not one of the party proposed to 
enter the consecrated precincts, and take closer cognizance 
of the spot, to which all eyes were directed with intense 
eagerness. But they kept their ground of observation 
for a considerable time after the vanishing of the phan- 
tom ; and though mysterious sounds and indistinct glim- 
merings were still rife in the heated imaginings of many, 
no further appearance was unanimously pronounced to 
have been visible during that night's watch ; and, by de- 
grees, the gazers dispersed, to spread panic and conjecture 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 275 

through the village. No epidemic is more easily dis- 
seminated ; and by the next day's close, all Redburn mus- 
tered for the ghost-hunt — which formidable array it was 
my lot to encounter, when I first entered the straggling 
street in quest of lodging and entertainment at the village 
inn. More entertainment than I had reckoned on was, as 
I have shown, provided for me by my garrulous land- 
lady ; and her village gossip had so well eked out the 
more substantial refreshment of her savoury fare, that 
time had stolen on unheeded amidst the unwonted quiet 
of her well-frequented house, and darkness had long suc- 
ceeded the gloaming which lent me light to reach its 
hospitable shelter. And still the old lady had something 
more to tell, and I still listened with unwearied ear, when 
all at once the deep unnatural quiet of the " deserted 
village" was broken by a confused uproar, like the rushing 
of an approaching torrent, and in a moment the tramp- 
ling of many feet and the clattering of many tongues, 
announced the nearness of the living torrent^ which 
came pouring onward in " admired disorder," and press- 
ing head over head, and shoulder against shoulder, into 
the kitchen of the Jolly Miller. And there were white 
faces and staring eyes, and chattering teeth, and " horrific 
hair," but no paralysis of tongues ; and, for a while, the 
confusion of Babel was nothing to that which mingled 
forty discordant voices, all trying to outpitch one another. 

At length, however, I obtained from mine host him- 
self the sum and substance of the united discords. His 
professional eye had been acute, even in the midst of the 
hurlyburly, to discern that a new and respectable-looking 
guest was located in his house ; and I was accordingly 
favoured with his account of the recent adventure. 

" They had watched," he said, " two good hours at the 
churchyard hatch, in full view of Andrew Cleaves's grave, 



276 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XIX. 

the exact spot of which was discernible, even after perfect 
nightfall ! and they had taken every possible precaution 
to satisfy themselves before dark, that no living creature, 
Christian or brute, was lurking within the churchyard — 
that there was nothing within it but the green graves and 
the white tombstones, and the old yew-tree in the north- 
east angle. 

" Well, sir," said mine host, " we watched there, as I 
made mention, two mortal hours ; and though some fan- 
cied one thing, and some another, they were nothing but 
fancies — for nothing better nor worse than we ourselves 
was stirring all that time ; and I, for one, began to think we 
were making fools of ourselves, and had best sneak home 
quietly, and say nothing more about the matter. But just 
then, sir," quavered mine host, glancing fearfully round, 
and lowering his tone to a whisper, " just then, sir ! we 
did see something. We seed the tall white thing rise up 
out of the earth, right at the head of the old man's grave ; 
and then, sir, if you'll believe me, as I am a sinful man, 
it rose and rose, and spread, till it was as big and high as 
the gas-work tower — though, for shape, we could not 
make it much out — only the head of it seemed to shoot 
up in a kind of forked fashion ; and there must have 
been some sort of unnatural light about it, for my eyes 
got quite dazed and dizzy like, and there was a ringing in 
my ears ; and then — Lord, sir ! — while we were all look- 
ing quite steadfast, and standing as steady as a rock, sir ! 
— quite cool and composed — the thing gives a kind of a 
heave up — so, sir ! — and down again ; and then there 
was a terrible noise, just as if the old church tower was 
tumbling about our ears — and then, we thought, it would 
be presumptuous to stay any longer, (for rashness is not 
courage, you know, sir,) and so we came back home 
again, sir, to talk the matter over quietly." 



ANDREW CLEAVES. 277 

But neither mine host nor his adherents were in a state 
to talk the matter over very quietly just then ; and all 
shrank back with unequivocal dismay, when I proposed 
to head them for a fresh enterprise — myself and two or 
three others, provided with lanterns, not to flare about 
the outskirts of the burying-ground, but to make strict 
search within its haunted precincts — even upon the very 
grave itself — of which they could not hear without a 
shudder. By degrees, however — what with shaming 
their pusillanimity, and patting their courage, and plying 
them well with mine host's strong beer — I succeeded in 
enlisting a band of desperate heroes prepared to brave all 
dangers, and swearing to go with me through fire and 
water. And off we set at a good round pace, (for some 
sort of courage is apt to cool if it marches to slow time,) and 
so reached the churchyard hatch ; and dashing through, 
without a moment's pause, made straight towards the 
haunted grave. But when we had neared it by a few 
yards, my doughty heroes made a sudden stop, and I held 
out my lantern far and high, to throw forward its rays on 
the strange object which indisputably lay (a long white 
heap) on Andrew's grave. Just then I struck my foot 
against a stone, and one behind me stumbled over another 
great rough stone, like those piled together, without ma- 
sonry, that formed the churchyard wall, close to which 
lay the three graves of the Cleaveses. 

"Oh, ho!" I cheeringly cried out to my trembling 
followers — " here has been a downfall ; but ghosts do not 
break down stone walls, my men." And on we went, 
stumbling over like obstacles, and five steps more brought 
us to the place of terrors ; and all the lanterns were held 
out, every neck poked forward, every eye full stretched 
— and all fear soon exchanged for loquacious wonder, and 
pitying exclamation — for there, upon his master's grave, 



278 CHURCHYARDS. — CHAP. XIX. 

stretched out at full length upon its side, lay the skeleton 
carcass of Andrew's poor old horse. He had been turned 
into the butcher's field behind the churchyard, to await, 
as I have told, the leisure of the squire's hounds. There 
was a breach in the loose stone wall, exactly at the head 
of Andrew's grave, and whether it was simply impatience 
of his new pasture, or whether the creature was really 
conscious that to the spot below that broken wall he had 
drawn the remains of his old master, certain it is he must 
have stationed himself in the gap when first observed by 
the frightened villagers ; and no doubt might have been 
seen there by daylight, had any one then bethought him- 
self of looking beyond the grave toward the adjoining 
enclosure. And it is equally certain, that on the memor- 
able night of the catastrophe, the poor old animal having 
raised himself by his forelegs on the lowest part of the 
breach, the loose stones had given way under his hoofs, 
and falling forward with them, a helpless, heavy weight, 
he had breathed out the last feeble remnant of his almost 
extinguished life, on the scarcely closed grave of his aged 
master, whose words were verified almost to the letter — 
— < f We shall last out one another's time." 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 279 



CHAPTER XX. 

THE GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 

Within a quarter of a mile of one of the most secluded 
sea-side hamlets on our western coast, stands its parish- 
church, a picturesque old building, on a most romantic 
site — the brow of a richly wooded cliff — the burial-ground 
forming a sort of table-land of rich sheltered verdure 
surrounded by noble elms, through the boles of which 
one may look down on the rolling ocean, so majestically 
contrasting with its ever-restless billows the unbroken 
silence and undisturbed tranquillity which reign within 
that village of the dead. I visited the church and church- 
yard about sunset on a rich autumnal evening, when the 
very soul of repose and harmony, pervading earth, air, 
and sky, seemed to breathe over the holy ground a more 
holy consecration. There was not a cloud in heaven — 
not even one purple cloud in the whole flaming Occident, 
where the great glorious orb was slowly sinking into the 
waveless sea, whose mighty voice was hushed into a lull- 
ing and delicious murmur, as the long liquid ridges 
advanced and receded with caressing gentleness on the 
broad silver sands. As I entered the lofty burying- 
ground, its western screen of noble elms stood magnifi- 
cently dark, in undefined massiness, between me and the 
glowing sunset ; but the golden glory stole in long lines 
of light through the arches of that living colonnade, 
burnishing the edges of many a tombstone, its quaint 
tracery of cross-bones, skull, and hour-glass, and brighten- 



280 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XX. 

ing many a nameless turfen heap, as if typical of the robes 
of light reserved in heaven, even for the lowly righteous, 
who have passed away from earth unhonoured and un- 
known. 

The church itself stood in deep shadow, except that 
here and there a glittering beam darting through some 
chink in the dark foliage, kindled the diamond panes of 
a long narrow window, or gilded the edge of an abutment, 
or the inner groining of the fine old porch, and on one 
particular spot, (a thickly ivied gable,) one golden ray 
streamed like an index, immediately attracting my atten- 
tion to the object on which it centred, a small oval monu- 
mental tablet, wholly unornamented, but well proportioned, 
of the purest white marble, and to my taste strikingly 
elegant, from that extreme simplicity, and the singularly- 
beautiful effect of contrast afforded by its rich frame-work 
of dark green ivy. Of the latter, not a vagrant tendril 
had been suffered to encroach over the edge of the small 
tablet, which had been affixed to the wall through a space 
just cleared to receive it in the verdant arras ; and I found, 
on a nearer scrutiny, that little more than a twelvemonth 
had elapsed since the insertion of that monumental record. 
The inscription was still sharp and clear, as if fresh from 
the chisel, and its purport was framed thus remarkably i— 

TO THE MEMORY OF 

MILLICENT ABOYNE, 

DAUGHTER AND ONLY CHILD OF THE BRAVE 

COLONEL ABOYNE, 

THIS TABLET IS INSCRIBED BY HER FAITHFUL SERVANT. 

SHE DIED AUGUST IOtH, 1 , 

IN THE 30TH YEAR OF HER AGE, 
OF A BROKEN HEART. 

I cannot tell how long I had been gazing on that 
strangely touching record, when the sound of an approach- 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 281 

ing footstep caused me to look round, and I saw advancing 
towards me an old grey-headed man, bearing in one hand 
a bunch of ponderous keys, his insignia of office, for he 
was no other than the parish-clerk, who, from his cottage 
window, which opened into the churchyard, having ob- 
served the entrance of a stranger within its sacred pre- 
cincts, and the apparent interest and curiosity with which 
I had been surveying the exterior of the church, came 
courteously forward, (doubtless not without some latent 
view to " a consideration]'} proffering admittance to the 
interior of the venerable edifice, and his services as 
cicerone ; and a far more agreeable one he proved than 
many a pompous guardian of more magnificent temples ; 
and far more pleasingly and profitably I spent that even- 
ing hour, within the comparatively humble walls of the 
village church listening to the simple annals of that aged 
chronicler, than I have passed various portions of time 
among the proud tombs of the mighty dead, rich in the 
splendour of architectural ornament and imperishable 
memories, over which all the yearnings of the heart 
to meditate in solemn silence are effectually marred, 
by the intrusive chatter of the magpie hireling who follows 
from tomb to tomb — from chapel to chapel, with voluble 
impertinence. 

My rustic cicerone was very differently qualified ; and 
as he told me, in brief and simple phrase, the history of 
the few monuments — of some from personal recollection 
of the individuals to whose memories they were inscribed 
— each story acquired additional interest from the vener- 
able aspect of the aged historian, on whose bald uncovered 
head, thinly encircled by a few white silky locks, the 
sunbeams darting through some panes of amber-tinted 
glass in the great west window, shed a halo of golden 
glory. The deep shadows of evening had almost blended 



282 CHURCHYARDS. — CHAP. XX. 

into profound obscurity, ere I left the church, and bade 
farewell to my venerable guide; but from him I did not 
separate, ere I had in some degree satisfied my curiosity 
respecting that small tablet on the ivy wall, on which I 
was gazing so intently when he courteously accosted me. 
The old man shook his head in reply to my first query 
and accomanying remark on the singularity of the inscrip- 
tion. 

" A h, sir ! " said he, " that was a sad business- — I am afraid 
some folks have much to answer for. But God only knows 
all hearts." And then he told me just so much of 
the story of that poor lady, whose fate was so affectingly 
recorded, as served to enhance my pleasure at hearing that 
I might obtain the full gratification of my curiosity, by 
introducing myself to the faithful old servant who had 
caused the erection of that singular memorial, who still 
lingered in the vicinity of a spot to her so sacred, and was 
never so happy as when encouraged by some attentive 
and sympathizing hearer, to talk of " days langsyne ;" — 
of the departed glory of her master's house ; and above 
all, of that beloved being, whose motherless infancy she 
had fostered with all the doting fondness of an Irish 
nurse, and whose fortunes she had followed through good 
and through evil, even unto the death, with that devoted 
attachment so characteristic of her class and country. 

That very evening, the sweet hour of gloaming wit- 
nessed the beginning of my acquaintance with Nora 
Carthy, and two hours later, when the uprisen moon 
showered down its full radiance on the jasmine-covered 
walls of her low white cottage, I was sitting with my new 
friend on the bench beside her own door, still listening 
with unflagging interest to her " thick-coming" recollec- 
tions, and even to the fondly unconscious repetitions 
poured out from the fulness of long pent-up feelings. 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 283 

Many were the after visits I paid to Nora's cottage, 
and more than once I stood beside the faithful creature 
on the churchyard sod, under that small marble tablet in 
the ivy wall ; and I shall not easily forget the speechless 
intensity with which she gazed upon its affecting record, 
nor the after burst of bitter feeling, when pointing to the 
green grave beneath, she passionately exclaimed — " And 
there she lies low — the flower of the world ! — laid there 
by a broken heart ! " 

I would not venture to relate the somewhat unevent- 
ful, but not uninteresting story of Millicent Aboyne, 
exactly as I heard it from the faithful Nora, whose 
characteristic enthusiasm, and strong prejudices, combined 
with her devoted affection for the deceased lady, made it 
almost impossible that she should afford a fair statement 
of the painful circumstances, which, in her firm opinion, 
had consigned the unfortunate Miss Aboyne to an un- 
timely grave. But I had opportunities of comparing 
poor Nora's relation with information derived from less 
questionable sources, and so gathered together, with im- 
partial selection, the details which I shall now attempt to 
arrange, in memory of my visit to Sea Vale churchyard. 

The father of Millicent Aboyne was a descendant of 
one of the most ancient Milesian families, whose gene- 
alogy, had I listened to Nora, I might have given in un- 
interrupted succession from Brian Boru. But if the royal 
blood had flowed uncontaminated from generation to 
generation into the veins of late posterity, a very incon- 
siderable portion of the royal treasure had been transmit- 
ted along with it, and Colonel Aboyne, the last lineal 
descendant, had still to carve out his fortune with his 
sword, when the French Revolution dissolved the Irish 
Brigade in the service of France, as an officer of which 
corps, and a most accomplished gentleman, he had 



284 CHURCHYARDS CHAP. XX. 

already been flatteringly distinguished at the Court of the 
Tuileries. 

To Ireland, where the young soldier still possessed a 
few acres of bog, and the shell of an old tower — the 
wreck of bygone prosperity— he betook himself on the 
first overthrow of his Gallic fortunes, with the intention 
of resuming his military career, as soon as circumstances 
should permit, in the English service. But a chain of 
causes, which I shall not take upon me to detail, com- 
bined to procrastinate the execution of this purpose, and, 
at length, so fatally influenced the enthusiastic and high- 
spirited character of the young soldier, that, without 
having calculated the consequences of his unguarded zeal 
in what he considered the cause of the oppressed — far 
less having contemplated actual rebellion — he found him- 
self deeply involved in the schemes of desperate men, and, 
finally, sharing with them the penalties of imprisonment, 
and probably approaching condemnation. The horrors 
of his fate were bitterly aggravated by anxiety for a be- 
loved wife, to whom he had been lately united, whose 
very existence seemed bound up with his own — for he 
had married her a destitute and friendless English orphan 
— a stranger in a strange land affectingly cast upon his 
compassionate protection, in her hour of extreme ne- 
cessity. For her sake life was precious to him on any 
terms not incompatible with a soldier's honour ; and he 
ventured on a plan of escape so hazardous, that none but 
desperate circumstances could have made it other than an 
act of madness. It fatally miscarried — for in the act of 
lowering himself from a wall of immense height, the frail 
cord to which he trusted failed him, and he was precipi- 
tated to the ground — retaken — and reconveyed to his 
dungeon with a fractured arm and thigh, and such other 
material injuries, as made it more than doubtful whether 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 285 

his life would be prolonged to pay the probably impend- 
ing* forfeiture. He was, however, spared by divine 
mercy, and by judicial lenity. 

Colonel Aboyne was proved to have been almost un- 
wittingly involved in the guilt of great offenders, from 
whom justice having exacted the dread penalty, was 
content to relax from her rigorous demands, in favour of 
the comparatively innocent ; and the almost hopeless 
prisoner was restored to liberty, and to his young, devoted 
wife, too blest to receive him back, as it were from the 
confines of the grave, though he returned to her, and to 
their ruinous home — the wreck — the shadow of his 
former self, with a frame and constitution irreparably in- 
jured by the fatal consequences of his late enterprize. 
The heavy charges of his trial had compelled him to 
mortgage his small patrimony, on which (thus burdened) it 
became impossible for him to maintain even his moderate 
establishment. Ireland was become distasteful to him ; 
and the languishing health of Mrs Aboyne requiring a 
milder climate than that of their northern residence, he 
lent a not unwilling ear to her timidly expressed longing 
once more to breathe the balmy air of her native Devon- 
shire ; and disposing (not without a pang) of Castle 
Aboyne, and every rood of his diminished heritage, with 
the small sum thus realizied he departed for England ; 
and with his gentle wife, and two faithful servants — . 
Nora Carthy and her husband — was shortly established 
in a small dwelling at Sidmouth. 

More than one season of pensive tranquillity rather than 
of positive happiness, was permitted them in that beauti- 
ful retreat ; but the fatal blow had been long struck to the 
heart of Mrs Aboyne, and her life, though sinking by 
almost imperceptible degrees, was not to be prolonged 
beyond the sixth summer of their residence in England. 



286 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XX. 

During- that interval she had given birth to two children. 
One only, a little girl, in her fifth year, survived her 
mother, to be the comfort of her afflicted father, and, as 
she grew up, the support and blessing of his infirm and 
solitary state. The faithful Nora had lost her only child 
about the time of the young Millicent's birth, and she 
had taken the latter to her bosom, with all the tenderness 
of a mother, Mrs Aboyne being unable to nurse her own 
infant. 

Nora was widowed also, before her mistress's death, so 
that her whole stock of warm affections centred in her 
orphan nursling, and in the master, whose fortunes she 
had followed through good and through evil. 

The residence of Sidmouth becoming distasteful to 
Colonel Aboyne, after the death of his beloved companion, 
he removed, with his little family, to a more secluded 
spot on the same western coast, the obscure village of 
Sea Vale, where motives of economy, as well as choice, 
induced him finally to fix his permanent abode. 

Uneventful, but not unblessed, flowed on the existence 
of the inmates of Sea Vale Cottage, till the young Milli- 
cent was grown up into womanhood; in the opinion of 
her doting father, as fair and perfect a creature as was 
ever formed in the imperfection of mortal nature, and in 
that of Nora Carthy, something still more faultless — an 
earthly angel ! — the object of her idol worship, though 
the warm-hearted Irishwoman, having been brought up 
by her mistress, Colonel Aboyne's mother, in the Pro- 
testant communion, professed to abjure all Popish abo- 
minations. 

It should have been mentioned earlier in this little 
narrative, that the parents of Colonel Aboyne were of a 
divided faith, and that he himself — though educated in his 
father's tenets — those of the Roman Catholic Church — 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 287 

had received from bis mother's early example, and re- 
stricted influence, such a bias in favour of the Reformed 
religion, as, in after time, when he became the inhabitant 
of a Protestant country, the husband of a wife of that 
persuasion, matured into sincere belief in that faith which 
had been her support in the hour of death, and, amid the 
pangs of separation, the mutual pledge of future reunion. 
It is almost needless to add that the little Millicent was 
brought up in the belief which had become that of both 
her parents ; but the circumstances of Colonel Aboyne 
had precluded all possibility of giving her any other ad- 
vantages of education, beyond those in his own power to 
impart. Happily his capabilities of tuition extended to 
the conferring of every thing really valuable, and even 
beyond those attainments, to many of the ornamental ac- 
quirements, which, like the capital of a Corinthian pillar, 
so gracefully surmount the more solid substructure. 

The mind of Millicent Aboyne was, therefore, not only 
stored with sacred knowledge and useful information, 
but she could read Italian and French with perfect faci- 
lity, drew landscapes and flowers with more taste and 
truth than is ever evinced by half the spoiled children of 
fortune, on whom vast sums have been lavished to entitle 
them to daub hot-pressed card-board with likenesses of 
things that never existed in " heaven above or in the 
earth beneath," and even acquired so much skill in in- 
strumental music, (to accompany a naturally sweet and 
flexible voice,) as could be taught by her father's crippled 
hand on an old Spanish guitar, the chords of which he had 
touched in his youth with such perfect execution, as in 
unison with vocal powers of uncommon richness, had 
won for the gay and handsome soldier many a sweet 
smile and admiring glance from the circle of court beau- 
ties, of which Marie Antoinette was the eclipsing syno- 



288 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XX. 

sure. Many a ear which shrinks fatigued and unedified 
from astounding bravuras, and scientific hors d'ceuvres, 
running- matches against time with scampering accompa- 
niments on grand pianos, might have drunk in delightedly 
the sweet and perfect melody of two blended voices, har- 
monizing with now and then a harp-like chord, which 
often sounded at nightfall from within the small low par- 
lour of Sea Vale Cottage, or from the honeysuckle arbour 
in its little garden, when the warm summer evenings 
drew thither the father and his child, with the tea-table, 
and Millicent's work-basket, the Colonel's old guitar, and 
his still-treasured " Cahier de Romances Nouvelles Im- 
primes a Paris l'an mil-sept cents quatrevingt douze." 
But though this venerable recueil was prized by Colonel 
Aboyne as a relic of the pleasurable days of youthful 
vanity — when hope was high, and " the world all before 
him where to choose" — and though visions of " long- 
faded glories'' passed before his eyes as they dwelt on the 
familiar music, and he hummed unconsciously the old 
favourite airs, he took far deeper delight in teaching 
Millicent the songs of his own native land, and in min- 
gling his voice with hers, in those wild and thrilling har- 
monies. In one of those — the touching Gramachree — 
the united strains were sweetly swelling, when late in 
the twilight of a summer evening a solitary stranger 
strolled down the shady green lane which bounded Co- 
lonel Aboyne's garden, and passed close behind the 
honeysuckle arbour. It was not in nature — not in that 
stranger's nature — to pass onward unheedful of those me- 
lodious sounds which poured forth so unexpectedly as it 
were in his very path ; and there he lingered (for strain 
succeeded strain) till the bright moon climbed high in 
heaven, and the unseen harmonists, desisting from their 
vocal labours, beiran to converse with each other in such 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 289 

sweet tones of affectionate familiarity as wouldhave riveted 
the listener's attention even more forcibly than the preced- 
ing- music, had he not started away from even a momentary 
indulgence of dishonourable curiosity. His forbearance 
was not unaccompanied, however, by views of ultimate 
compensation ; and no later than the following morning-, 
the village doctor, a worthy and sensible man, ever a 
welcome visitant at Sea Vale Cottage, was accompanied, 
in his early visit to its inmates, by a stranger of prepos- 
sessing appearance, whom he introduced to Colonel and 
Miss Aboyne as the Rev. Mr Vernon, the new curate of 
Sea Vale. 

Horace Vernon was one of many children, the orphans 
of a deceased clergyman ; and his widowed mother had 
strained her overburdened means to the very uttermost, 
to continue him at the university for two years after his 
father's sudden and untimely death. 

Beyond that important period she was powerless to 
assist him ; and when he was so fortunate as to obtain 
the desirable curacy of Sea Vale on entering into holy 
orders, her maternal anxieties, so far relieved on his 
account, were naturally engrossed by the more pressing 
claims of her younger children. Horace was well content 
with his allotted station. From his earliest recollection, 
accustomed to retirement, and to the strict, though re- 
spectable frugality of his father's household, and subjected, 
during the greater part of his college life, to the innumer- 
able privations and mortifications inseparable from the 
station of a poor scholar among the wealthy and the pro- 
digal, he had acquired no habits or ideas inimical to the 
life of obscure usefulness apparently designed for him. 
There had never been any rational prospect of his obtain- 
ing church preferment, unless he should fag his way up 
the clerical ladder by college tutorship, or private con- 

T 



290 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XX. 

nexions otherwise formed at the university ; and this 
course he might have pursued successfully, had his father 
lived to continue him at college, and to excite him to the 
necessary exertions. But his was not an energetic cha- 
racter : It was amiable, affectionate, and feeling — endowed 
with no inconsiderable share of talent, much refined and 
elegant taste, and a sincere desire of acting up to every 
moral and religious principle. Add to this a very hand- 
some person and engaging address, a little leaven of 
vanity, and a too great liability to be influenced, even 
against his better judgment, by the graceful and showy, 
in opposition to more solid but less attractive qualities, 
and the sketch of Horace Vernon's character will be 
faithful as a mere outline. This little history affords no 
scope for Flemish painting. 

So constituted and endowed, the young curate settled 
himself very contentedly at Sea Vale, and was not long 
in making a most favourable impression on all classes 
throughout the parish. He was unaffectedly earnest in 
his pulpit duties, and not less anxious to fulfil all others 
annexed to his pastoral charge. And he did fulfil them 
very respectably, and so as to give almost general satis- 
faction ; though, it must be confessed, not without occa- 
sionally yielding, and often doing violence, to certain 
feelings of morbid refinement, which revolted with sicken- 
ing disgust from many of those scenes of human misery 
which must come under the eye of the zealous minister, 
and from which the faithful follower of Him who " went 
about doing good," will not shrink back with fastidious 
weakness. 

Exactly twelve months from that sweet summer even- 
ing when Horace Vernon was arrested in his first stroll 
round the village, thenceforth to be his home, by the 
plaintive air of " Gramachree," breathed in vocal unison 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 291 

from behind the high holly hedge which separated him 
from Colonel Aboyne's garden — exactly a twelvemonth 
from that well-remembered evening — the young curate was 
seated in the arbour within that holly hedge, and his voice, 
in lieu of her father's, was mingling with that of Milli- 
cent Aboyne in the same touching harmony, while her 
hand lightly swept the chords of the old guitar ; and 
Colonel Aboyne, reclining comfortably in his large arm- 
chair, the " Cahier de Romances Nouvelles" lying on 
his cushioned footstool, gazed with tender complacency 
on the twain, thenceforth to be inseparably united in his 
affections — for his Millicent w 7 as the affianced wife of 
Horace Vernon. 

Such had been the very natural, the almost inevitable 
result of an acquaintance and intimacy formed between 
two amiable and attractive young persons, brought per- 
petually together under such circumstances as character- 
ized the intercourse of Horace Vernon and Millicent 
Aboyne. Had they become acquainted in the concourse 
of the world, or even been thrown together in a circle 
rather more diversified than that small group which con- 
stituted their world at Sea Vale, it is possible, nay even 
probable, that neither would have conceived for the other 
a warmer sentiment than kindness and friendly interest, 
for in many points they differed essentially; and Milli- 
cent, more than two years older than Vernon, gentle and 
serious almost to pensiveness, elegant and pleasing in 
person rather than strikingly beautiful, and characterized 
by peculiar diffidence and simplicity of manner, would 
hardly have been distinguished among the more youth- 
ful, the more brilliant, the more showily accomplished, 
by one so peculiarly liable as was Horace Vernon, to be 
captivated by those graces which excite most general 
admiration. 



292 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XX. 

But he had never mixed in general society — had never, 
in the small circle of his connexions and acquaintance, 
seen any thing- half so fair, so elegant and attractive, as 
the sweet Millicent. The high-bred manners of Colonel 
Aboyne were also delightful to his really refined taste; 
and the kind hospitality with which he was ever wel- 
comed at Sea Vale Cottage, won on his best affections, 
while the tastes and pursuits of its inmates awakened his 
warmest sympathies. No wonder that, under such cir- 
cumstances, Horace should attach himself devotedly to 
Miss Aboyne, nor that she, whose intercourse with the 
world had been even more limited than her lover's, 
should return his affection with the warmth and truth of 
a first and perfect tenderness, without questioning with 
herself whether the amiable and engaging qualities which 
had won her unpractised heart, were built upon that 
stable groundwork which formed the basis of her own 
gentle and diffident character. Essentially requisite it 
was to the present peace and future happiness of Horace 
and Millicent, that the virtues of patience and stability 
should be among their leading characteristics — for pru- 
dence, or rather necessity, deferred to a distant period 
their hope of being united. 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 293 



CHAPTER XXI. 

It was not indeed till the twelfth month of their ac- 
quaintance that Vernon had ventured to declare to Colonel 
Aboyne his attachment to his daughter, and to ask his 
parental sanction to their future union. To this step he 
had been emboldened by the promise of a small living 
from an old friend and college pupil of his deceased father ; 
and the present incumbent being far advanced in years, 
there was a rational prospect of Vernon's becoming, at 
no remote period, master of such a moderate competence 
as might enable him to marry, without subjecting the 
object of his affections to the miseries of genteel poverty. 

Colonel Aboyne, who had become warmly attached to 
Horace, was well content to accept his proposals for that 
darling daughter, the thought of whose friendless and 
wellnigh destitute condition, in the event of her becom- 
ing an orphan, not only banished sleep too often from his 
pillow, but wrapped him in many a fit of deep and sad 
abstraction, while listening — apparently listening — to the 
sweet music of her silvery voice, or sitting with her at 
the social board, where she " gaily prest and smiled," 
unconscious of the feelings she inspired. His consent 
was therefore cordially and joyfully yielded ; and to 
Horace and Millicent, the state of sanctioned and un- 
troubled happiness which succeeded their betrothment, 
seemed for a time so near the perfection of earthly feli- 
city, that even he (the more impassioned, but not more 
devoted, of the twain) contemplated, with tolerable equa- 
nimity, the possible intervention of the two of three 



294 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XXI. 

years (a very reasonable allowance of life to the old in- 
cumbent) between his present condition of probationary 
bliss, and the union which was to render it complete. 
Almost domesticated with Colonel Aboyne and his daugh- 
ter, to the former he looked up with filial affection and 
respect ; aud his more tender and intimate association 
with Millicent's finely-constituted mind, insensibly led 
to the happiest results in his own character, which gra- 
dually settled into a steadiness of pursuit and principle 
well befitting- his sacred profession, and holding- out the 
fairest promise of wedded happiness to his affianced wife, 
who already went hand in hand with her destined partner 
in all the sweet and holy charities constituting- so essen- 
tial a portion of pastoral duty. Never, perhaps — allow- 
ing for the alloy which must temper all earthly happiness 
— were assembled happier persons than the three sitting- 
together, as lately described, under the honeysuckle 
arbour in Colonel Aboyne's garden, in the warm twilight 
of that sweet summer evening. 

Horace and Millicent had returned from a long ramble, 
and many benevolent visits among the more distant cot- 
tagers of their extensive parish. They had felt that 
" where the eye saw, it blessed them;" and the tender 
and serious heart of Millicent, in particular, overflowed 
with that blissful conviction, and with the delightful 
assurance, that her heavenly, as well as her earthly parent, 
did indeed sanction her intended union, and that her lot, 
and that of her chosen partner, cast as it was in the quiet 
vale of sweet retirement and safe mediocrity, where, 
nevertheless, opportunities of doing good would be 
abundantly afforded, was one so peculiarly favoured, that 
while she thought thereon tears swelled into her dove- 
like eyes, and she faltered out something of her feelings 
(for what tongue could speak them fluently?) to him on 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 295 

whose arm she leaned in tender and perfect confidence. 
So time passed on with the betrothed lovers, accompa- 
nied in its progress by all of pleasantness and enjoyment 
that could compensate for protracted expectation. And 
on, and on it passed — still pleasantly — still happily, on 
the whole, but to a length of probation so little antici- 
pated by Vernon — so unchangeable as to any immediate 
prospect of termination — that something of the sickness 
of hope deferred began to steal into his heart, and now 
and then betrayed itself, even to Millicent, by a fretful 
tone or word, or a look of languor and sullenness, even 
in the midst of occupations and interests, which to her 
had lost nothing of their soothing and salutary influence. 
A year — two — three— four years — (in truth, an awful 
amount in the sum of human life !) — passed on, at first 
swiftly and happily, then with more tedious pace, and at last 
heavily, and sometimes sadly, at Sea Vale Cottage. Still 
existing circumstances were precisely the same with all 
parties, as when, four summers back, they felt themselves 
the happiest and most contented of human beings. But as 
years crept on with Colonel Aboyne, his anxiety to see 
his child securely established became naturally greater, and 
he could not but occasionally observe and lament that 
though Vernon's attachment to Millicent suffered no ap- 
parent diminution, feelings of despondency and irritability 
were growing fast upon his character, where they might 
acquire a fatal influence not to be counteracted hereafter 
by the tardy operation of happier circumstances. And 
Millicent ! she was too well aware, even more so than 
her father, of the morbid change which was effecting in 
her lover's mind, composed as it was by nature of gay and 
happy elements. Poor Millicent ! — how many thorns 
had already sprung up in that peaceful path, which but 
so lately she had accounted peculiarly favoured ! Vernon's 



298 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XXI. 

affection for her, though less ardently demonstrated than 
when they first exchanged their plighted troth, she verily 
believed to be entire and sincere as in those halcyon 
days ; and her feelings towards him had but matured into 
deeper and more holy tenderness — entire and self-devot- 
ing, such as only woman's heart can cherish — not blind to 
the imperfections of the beloved object, though sweetly 
extenuating and excusing them with unconscious inge- 
nuity. Miss Aboyne could not but observe also, that 
the broad open brow of her dear father was more fre- 
quently contracted with deep and open lines than she had 
ever yet seen imprinted there ; and she fancied, too, (it 
might be only fancy,) that there was a perceptible change 
in his whole person and deportment, as if Time were 
hurrying him on with more hasty strides than the imper- 
ceptibly downward pace of natural decline. 

Millicent's tender apprehensions were not wholly ground- 
less ; Colonel Aboyne's constitution, impaired by former 
severe suffering, had of late felt the pernicious influence 
of increased mental disquietude, and again, the physical 
ailment reacting on the moral, brought on a train of those 
nervous miseries scarcely to be repelled by any effort of 
reason and self-control, even when perfectly imaginary ; 
and unhappily there was too much reason for Colonel 
Aboyne's uneasiness. He persuaded himself the hour 
was fast approaching which would make his daughter not 
only a friendless, but almost a destitute orphan, her sole 
inheritance comprising the small cottage they inhabited, 
and a sum of money scarce amounting to hundreds, 
though the accumulated whole of his small annual sav- 
ings, religiously hoarded, with whatever sacrifice of, his 
own comforts, since the hour of his darling's birth. The 
circumstances of her engagement to Horace Vernon were 
such as would also render her situation one of greater difli- 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART, 297 

culty, if the period was still to be deferred when she 
might be taken from a father's to a husband's home ; and 
v/hile revolving all these perplexities in his sleepless and 
solitary hours, Colonel Aboyne was almost inclined to 
yield to the frequently impatient proposals of Horace for 
his immediate union with Millicent ; and that, leaving 
fearlessly to Providence all care for the future, they might 
form, for the present, one humble and contented family, 
under the peaceful roof of Sea Vale Cottage. But Colo- 
nel Aboyne was too well aware of the distresses which 
might tread close on such a measure to sanction it, except 
as one of imperious necessity ; and at length, after long 
and harassing reflection, he determined on the execution 
of a project, to which nothing less than overpowering 
anxiety for his beloved child could have reconciled his 
high spirit and fastidious feelings. It was no less an en- 
terprise (great indeed to the long-secluded valetudinarian) 
than to revisit the land of his birth — the home of his 
forefathers, in the forlorn hope of recovering from a dis- 
tant kinsman the amount of a pecuniary loan, lent in the 
generous confidence of unsuspicious youth, without fur- 
ther security than the word of a friend, which sacred 
pledge had not however been redeemed, on Colonel 
Aboyne's written application, soon after his first estab- 
lishment in England ; and, high-spirited as he was, no 
personal consideration could have compelled a second 
remonstrance. But for his child ! — his child ! — what 
sacrifice would he not make ! what difficulties would he 
not encounter I His resolve was made, declared, and 
speedily acted upon, in spite of the tender dissuasions of 
Millicent, and the fainter opposition of Vernon. New 
vigour seemed granted to him for the prosecution of his ar- 
duous undertaking; and cheerfully reassuring his anxious 
and drooping child, he firmly negatived her tender petition 



298 CHURCHYARDS.— CHAP. XXI. 

to accompany him to Ireland, on the reasonable grounds 
that it would not only increase their embarrassments if 
he failed in the object of his expedition, but at all events 
protract his absence from Sea Vale. 

The day was fixed for Colonel Aboyne's departure, 
and the preceding evening was the saddest ever spent to- 
gether by the father and daughter in that dear cottage 
which had been so long the scene of their domestic hap- 
piness. Autumn was somewhat advanced, but the glori- 
ous light of a cloudless harvest-moon shone full into the 
little parlour casement, near which sat together the parent 
and the child, side by side, her hand within her father's — 
and they were both silent. Only, when Colonel Aboyne 
fondly kissed the pale soft cheek which rested on his 
shoulder, and the full closed eyelids, with their long lashes 
trembling through tears in the moonbeam, poor Millicent 
turned her face inward on her father's bosom, and the 
suppressed grief half-vented itself in deep short sobs. 

" Be of good comfort, dearest!" said her father, mas- 
tering his own emotion — " Cheer up, my Milly ! Re- 
member I am going to leave you but for a short — a very 
short time. You and I have spoiled each other, Milly ! 
We have been too much together ; I should have sent my 
darling sometimes away from me, to have accustomed her 
to live without her old father — and there is one, Milly ! 

who, if I were gone " but poor Milly 's thick-coming 

sobs told him those were not words of comfort; and after 
a minute's silence, to calm the tremor in his own voice, 
he resumed, in freer accents — " Look up, Milly ! at that 
bright full moon — before it is dwindled to a silver thread, 
you may hear that I am on my way home again ; and look 
up, Milly ! and see how gloriously it shines upon us — 
we will for once believe in omens, and take its bright 
promise for" Millicent looked up just as her father 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 299 

stopped so abruptly— a huge black bar was drawn across 
the star of promise ; and in a few seconds, while father 
and daughter were still gazing earnestly upwards, the 
beautiful luminary was totally eclipsed. 

The next morning found Millicent and her faithful 
Nora sole inhabitants of Sea Vale Cottage. Vernon had 
accompanied Colonel Aboyne to the place of embarka- 
tion — an opportunity of confidential intercourse with his 
future son-in-law gladly embraced by the anxious travel- 
ler. To Vernon he spoke unreservedly of his own inter- 
nal conviction, that in spite of that present renovation, 
which he gratefully acknowledged as providentially granted 
for the prosecution of his immediate purpose, the termi- 
nation of his earthly sojourn was at no great distance. He 
spoke of her, who would then be a destitute orphan, and he 
accepted, as solemnly as it was offered, Horace Vernon's 
voluntary promise, in case of an unfavourable issue to 
his present undertaking, and of life not being spared him 
to return to Sea Vale, then to take to himself his affian- 
ced wife so soon as he could win her consent to accompany 
him to the. altar — and taking up his abode with her under 
that lowly roof, which would be wellnigh all the poor 
Millicent's portion, resolve for her sake cheerfully to 
contend with present — even protracted difficulties — and 
so await (patiently trusting in Providence) those better 
days they were reasonably encouraged to look forward to. 
It was also settled between the friends, that, with Milli- 
cent's consent, the same arrangement should take place 
soon after Colonel Aboyne's return from Ireland, were 
that return permitted, though unblessed by a favourable 
result to the business which impelled him thither. 

So having spoken, and confided to each other their 
mutual wishes and anxieties, the old man and the young- 
one, the almost father and son, parted at the place of 



300 CHURCHYARDS. — CHAP. XXI. 

embarkation, with a fervent blessing- and a short farewell 
— and from Colonel Aboyne, as he stepped into the boat, 
a look to Vernon, and an emphatic pressure of the hand, 
which, more touchingly than language, commended the 
absent Millicent to her lover's protection. 

If soberizing- time and protracted expectation had aba- 
ted somewhat of Vernon's first enthusiastic passion, his 
feelings for Millicent were still those of sincere and tender 
interest ; and with all the affecting circumstances of his 
late parting with her father fresh in his recollection, it 
was with a revival of even more than former tenderness, 
that he met her on his return, at the little garden -g-ate 
before the cottag-e, of which she was now the sole sad 
occupant. Deep and fervent was at that moment his un- 
uttered vow to be indeed friend, father, protector, hus- 
band — every thing- to the dear and g-entle being 1 who 
might so soon be dependent on him for her all of earthly 
comfort. Few words passed between them at their first 
greeting-. Vernon hastened to answer Millicent's enqui- 
ring look with an assurance that all was well with her 
dear father when they parted ; and then the two entered 
the cottage together, and seated themselves in the small 
bay window, neither however occupying the large arm- 
chair, which stood with its cushioned footstool in the 
accustomed place. Both looked towards it, and Vernon, 
perceiving the direction of Millicent's tearful glance, and 
well comprehending- the subject of her fond solicitude, 
exerted himself to comfort and reassure her, till by de- 
grees he lured her into the indulgence of more cheerful 
thoughts and happier expectations. But as he looked 
earnestly in her mild fair face, he was struck with the 
increased transparency of a complexion, always peculiarly 
delicate, but now beautiful with an almost fearful beauty ; 
for the naturally pale, though clear and healthful cheek, 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 301 

now bloomed with a spot of the brightest carnation ; and 
quickly glancing* at the hand he held within his own, he 
almost started at observing its sickly hue and evident 
attenuation. 

" Are you well, Milly ?" he asked abruptly, " quite 
well, dearest Millicent ? This little hand tells a feverish 
tale, — and those cheeks ! — fie ! fie ! Milly ! You have 
been a self-tormentor of late." And he was but half 
satisfied with her assurance that she was not ill — had 
nothing to complain of, only a little occasional languor 
— and now that he had brought her such consoling tidings 
of her dear father's progress, she would rouse herself to 
hope and cheerfulness, and the resumption of all their 
favourite pursuits and occupations. 

When Nora opened the cottage gate to let out Vernon 
that evening, he lingered a moment to speak a kind word 
or two to the faithful old servant, and then, suddenly 
reverting to his late startling observations, he said, " Mil- 
licent has been worrying herself to death, Nora, with 
anxiety about her father. We must take better care of 
her and prevent this, or she will fret herself into a fever ; 
I was quite struck this evening with her altered looks." 
— " And was you indeed ? — and time you should, maybe," 
answered Nora, in her driest and least cordial tone, — for 
she had long discerned a change in her darling's health 
and spirits, which had escaped even the parental eye; and 
with the shrewd quickness of doting affection, she had not 
failed to remark, that though the affianced lovers were 
together as much as formerly, and though they met and 
parted, to all appearance, as affectionately as ever, their 
separation was too often followed by a cloud on Millicent's 
brow, which had not been used to hang there during such 
brief absences ; and more than once Nora had surprised 
her weeping in her own little chamber, after her return 



302 CHURCHYARDS CHAP. XXI. 

from a walk with Vernon. It was therefore that she 
replied to his questions with almost reproachful coldness ; 
but her slight and vague displeasure was soon appeased 
by the unaffected warmth with which he now poured 
forth the apprehensious she had succeeded in rousing so 
effectually; and he slept not that night for thinking of 
Millicent's burning hand and crimsoned cheek, and for 
wishing it were day that he might revisit the cottage, 
and urge her to see their good friend the village apothe- 
cary, and consult him respecting those symptoms of 
feverish debility, which he was now persuaded had been 
long hanging about her, though his own perceptions of 
the evil had been so tardily awakened. Full of these 
anxious thoughts and intentions, he presented himself at 
Millicent's breakfast-table, just as she had descended from 
her own chamber; but felt almost immediately reassured by 
a first glance at the now natural hue of her fair complexion, 
the calm smile with which she greeted his appearance, and 
the soft coolness of the hand extended to meet his with 
affectionate welcome. His previous anxiety, and his 
earnest wish that she should consult Mr Henderson, were 
not left unmentioned, however; but, by the time break- 
fast was over, Millicent had so well succeeded in talking 
and smiling him out of his fears, that when Nora came 
in to remove the tea equipage, he could not forbear casting 
towards her one glance of almost reproachful exultation, 
which, however, obtained no other return than a look of 
discouraging seriousness. 

But after a little time, even Nora's fond apprehensive- 
'■ess began to yield to the comforting evidences of her 
darling's daily renovation. Long, and frequent, and 
satisfactory letters arrived from Ireland — satisfactory at 
least as to the point she had most at heart, the welfare 
of her beloved father. Colonel Aboyne gave her the 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 303 

most positive assurances, that he had received unexpected 
and extraordinary benefit, from the stimulating- effects of 
his voyage and journey, and the influence of his native 
air ; and in his first letter, he expressed sanguine hope of 
a favourable result to the business he was engaged in. 
Succeeding accounts, however, became on that head more 
discouraging. Colonel Aboyne's flattering expectations 
were soon overclouded — at last totally relinquished ; but 
still he wrote cheerfully, consolingly, — spoke of himself 
as returning as poor a man, indeed, as when he left his 
Milly and their dear cottage, but a renewed one in health 
and vigour, and again looking forward with tranquil hope, 
not only to the union of his children, (for so he called 
both Horace and Millicent,) but, with God's blessing, to 
see them assured of that moderate competence which had 
already been withheld so far beyond the term of human 
calculation. And then Vernon breathed into Millicent's 
ear the arrangements which had been entered into by her 
father and himself, respecting their almost immediate union 
on Colonel Aboyne's return from Ireland, whatever might 
be the result of his visit to that country ; and Millicent, 
though she listened with surprise and agitation, did not 
refuse to ratify a compact so tenderly and sacredly hal- 
lowed. 

Colonel Aboyne's last brief letter was merely to men- 
tion the day of his embarkation, and that on which, to an 
almost certainty, he might be expected at Sea Vale ; 
" and even now," he wrote — " while I trace these few 
last lines, methinks I see our own dear cottage, my Miliy 
looking anxiously out for me from the garden gate, and 
Horace advancing down the green lane, in readiness to 
receive the old cripple, and help him carefully down the 
ladder-steps of the stupendous Highflyer. Be there both 
of you, my children, that we may together re-enter that 



304 CHURCHYARDS. — CHAP. XXI. 

peaceful abode, soon, I hope, to shelter us all beneath its 
roof, one united and contented family of love." 

But God had appointed otherwise. On the evening 
of that day, which should have restored the father and 
the friend to his expecting 1 dear ones, there was a sound 
of weeping and lamentation, of " woman's wail," within 
the darkened parlour of Sea Vale Cottage, where three 
persons were assembled together, (all distinction of rank 
forgotten in the common sorrow,) to mingle their tears 
for the long absent — the fondly expected — who was never 
more to re-enter his earthly habitation — whose " place 
was to know him no more." 

The packet on board which Colonel Aboyne had taken 
his passage, had foundered in mid-channel ; and of the few 
who were saved, he was not. Millicent was an orphan ! 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 305 



CHAPTER XXII. 

Autumn was fast fading into winter, when the heavy- 
tidings of her sudden bereavment fell like an ice-bolt on 
the heart of Miss Aboyne. And long it was before the 
unremitting tenderness and attention of her now sole 
earthly protector — her betrothed husband — and the more 
than maternal cares of her faithful Nora, were rewarded 
by any indications of reviving health and cheerfulness 
in the object of their mutual anxiety. 

Passing the common love between parent and child, 
had been that which bound up, as in one, the hearts 
of Colonel Aboyne and his motherless daughter; and the 
reflection that, for her sake, this beloved father had un- 
dertaken the voyage which had terminated so fatally, failed 
not to dash her cup of sorrow with peculiar bitterness. 
The suddenness of the shock had also tried to the utter- 
most her delicate and already impaired constitution ; and 
for a considerable time it required all the sedulous care 
of love and fidelity, and all the skill and unremitting 
watchfulness of her medical adviser, to avert the threat- 
ening symptoms of decline. 

But not only was Millicent Aboyne too truly a Chris- 
tian to sorrow like those who have no hope, but even in 
this world she felt and gratefully acknowledged that she 
had hopes, and dear ones ; and that, if it pleased God to 
restore her to health, the after life that was to be passed 
with the husband of her choice, to whom she had been 
consigned, in a manner, by the dying breath of her beloved 
father, would be one of sweet contentedness. Therefore, 



306 CHURCHYARDS CHAP. XIII. 

when she prayed fervently to be reconciled to God's will 
in all things, she thought it no sin to add to that petition 
a humble and pathetic supplication for continued life, if 
he saw that it was expedient for her ; and the boon so 
submissively implored was, to present appearance gra- 
ciously conceded. Returning- health once more re-invigo- 
rated the long-drooping frame, and again there was hope, 
and cheerfulness, and innocent enjoyment, and sweet 
companionship, in the orphan's home. Then it was that 
Vernon began to urge her on the subject of an immediate 
union, with affectionate and forcible persuasion ; and 
Millicent was too well aware of the reasonableness of his 
arguments, and too nobly free from all taint of affectation, 
to hesitate a moment in acceding to his entreaties, except 
from motives of tender reluctance to exchange her mourn- 
ing dress for bridal raiment, before the expiration of a 
twelvemonth from the time of her irreparable loss. She 
was also desirous, with God's blessing, to feel her health 
more perfectly re-established before she took upon herself 
the responsibility of new and important duties ; and finally, 
a compromise between the lovers was definitively arran- 
ged, that in three months from that last May morning 
which completed the sixth month from her father's 
death, Millicent Aboyne should become the wife of 
Horace Vernon. 

Few, on either side, were the requisite marriage pre- 
parations. Little of worldly goods had each wherewith 
to endow the other. On Vernon's side, only the small 
stipend of his curacy ; on that of Millicent, no more than 
the property of her little cottage, and the broken sum of 
that small hoard, which was all Colonel Aboyne had been 
enabled to bequeath to his orphan daughter. Added to 
her scanty heritage was, however, one heirloom, justly 
valued by Millicent as a jewel of great price. The faith- 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 307 

fully devoted Nora was never to be sundered from her 
foster-child ; and with her aid and experience, the latter 
smilingly promised Vernon, that comfort and frugality 
should go hand in hand in their future establishment. 
Already Horace had assumed the management, not only 
of Millicent's flower-beds, but of the whole productive 
and well-arranged little garden ; and he never quitted the 
small domain to return to his solitary corner of the large 
rambling old rectory, (occupied in part payment of his 
scanted dues,) without longing more and more impatiently 
for the approaching hour, when the gentle mistress of 
Sea Vale Cottage should admit him there, the wedded 
partner of her humble and happy home. 

One morning Vernon entered Millicent's little sitting- 
room with an open letter in his hand, which he flung into 
her lap as she sat at work, with an air of half jesting, 
half serious discomposure. " There, Milly !" said he ; 
" read that — and you may expect me to come and take 
up my abode here directly •> whether you will or not. 
Perverse girl ! if you had not doomed me to such long- 
exclusion, I should not now be annoyed by the contents 
of that provoking letter. Read, read, Milly ! and revoke 
my sentence.'' The letter so ungraciously commented 
on was nevertheless an exceedingly well-turned, well- 
bred epistle, from no less a personage than the honour- 
able and reverend Dr Hartop, Vernon's rector, and the 
rector and holder of more than one other valuable living 
and comfortable piece of church preferment. He had 
not visited his Sea Vale flock since it had been committed 
to the care of the present curate ; but his physician 
having recommended sea air and quiet, as restoratives 
after a long enfeebling illness, and cherishing in his own 
mind an affectionate recollection of the lobsters and turbot 
that frequent those happy shores, the honourable and reve- 



308 CHURCHYARDS CHAP. XXII. 

rend gentleman forthwith felt a conscientious call to bestow 
his pastoral presence for the summer months among- his 
coast parishioners. He was to be accompanied in his re- 
tirement by the youngest of eight portionless daughters 
of his brother-in-law, the Earl of March wood, who, as well 
as his amiable Countess, was always magnanimously ready 
to spare either of their blooming treasures, to enliven the 
solitude of their wealthy and reverend uncle, and smooth 
his gouty footstool. The noble parents would, indeed, 
have extended the sacrifice to any number of the fair 
bevy Dr Hartop might have been pleased to put in re- 
quisition ; but that highly conscientious person not only 
revolted from exacting too much from such all-conceding 
generosity, but felt a strong conviction that his personal 
comforts would be more attended to, and the orthodox 
regularity of his household less deranged, by one of the 
lovely sisters, than if he had availed himself of the libe- 
rally-granted privilege to summon them in divisions. 
The privilege of selection he, however, exercised without 
scruple ; and on the present occasion, was to be accom- 
panied to Sea Vale by his favourite niece, Lady Octavia 
Falkland, a very lovely, gay, good-humoured, captivating 
creature of nineteen — " toute petrie d'esprit," said her 
French governess — brilliantly accomplished, and (as every 
body said) " with the best heart in the world." 

Lady Octavia was perfect, in short — or would have been, 
but for some of those trifli ng alloys inseparable from earthly 
perfection : such as a little vanity, a little selfishness, a 
little cunning, and a little want of principle. To leave 
London in full season, with an old valetudinarian uncle, 
for " the ends of the earth," was, however, such a heroic 
sacrifice to duty as Lady March wood failed not to turn 
to good account, by descanting thereon, with maternal 
sensibility, in the hearing of all with whom the touching 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 309 

trait was likely to tell — especially in the presence of a 
young Earl of immense property, lately come of age, and 
as yet encumbered with a few rustic prejudices in favour 
of religion and morality, the fruit of much seclusion with 
a sickly methodistical mother, who had early instilled 
into the heart of her only child, " that peculiar way of 
thinking" which had strangely supported her through 

trials of no common character. Lord M had been 

evidently struck by the beauty of the fair Octavia, and 
as evidently captivated by her engaging sweetness. He 
had danced with her, talked with her, and, as was clearly 
perceptible to Lady Marchwood's discriminating eye, 
watched her still more assiduously ; and still he spake 
not — and on one or two late occasions, as he became 
more familiar with the home circle of March wood House, 
he had looked startled and uncomfortable at some inter- 
esting naivete of the Lady Octavia, (who, to do her jus- 
tice, was seldom off her guard in his company ;) and then 
there was such a visible refroidissement — a something 
so like drawing back, in his demeanour towards the 
lady, that her affectionate mamma, having lectured her 
pathetically on the consequences of her indiscretion, 
thought there was something quite providential in the 
Sea Vale scheme, of which she purposed to make the 

most in Lord M 's hearing in the manner aforesaid. 

" And then," said she, " Octavia, when he comes down 
to us in the autumn, as you know he has half promised, 
if you will but be prudent for a little while, and fall 
naturally into his odd tastes and fancies, depend on it he 
will speak." Which maternal consolation, combined with 
private visions of other contingent rewards to be coaxed 
out of the rich old uncle, and her constitutional good 
temper, enabled the fair exile to submit to her fate with 
a degree of resignation, not less edifying than amazing, 



310 CHURCHYARDS CHAP. XXII. 

considering- she was aware of all its horrors — of the per- 
fect seclusion of Sea Vale, where the curate and apothe- 
cary were likely to be the only visiters at the rectory. 
The said rectory was a large, old-fashioned, but not 
incommodious mansion, of which, as has been said, a 
couple of rooms were occupied by Horace Vernon. 

Dr Hartop's letter (which had been so ungraciously 
received) very politely requested that Mr Vernon would 
consider himself his guest during his, the Doctor's, resi- 
dence at Sea Vale ; and then went on to bespeak Horace's 
obliging superintendence of certain arrangements and 
alterations respecting- furniture, &c. &c, especially in the 
apartments designed for the occupation of his niece, Lady 
Octavia Falkland. This letter was brought by the first di- 
vision of the household ; and Dr Hartop and Lady Octa- 
via were to be expected at Sea Vale in a week at furthest. 

« And the old rectory is half turned out of window 
already," said Vernon, pettishly, when he had told his 
story, and Millicent had glanced over the Doctor's letter 
— " and a whole waggon-load of things is arrived — 
couches, chaises-longues, a French bed, a whole steam 
kitchen, and a huge harp case among the rest. I dare 
say that Lady Octavia is very fine and disagreeable." 

" A most candid conclusion, truly!" observed Milli- 
cent with a smile, — but it was a half smile only ; for in 
heart she was as much annoyed as Horace by the intel- 
ligence he had communicated. In former days, the 
arrival of these strangers would have been a matter of 
indifference to her, or perhaps of cheerful interest ; but at 
present, scarcely recovered from the effects of recent 
affliction — shrinking- from the eye of strangers with a 
morbid timidity, which from long seclusion, had grown 
upon her natural diffidence— still enfeebled in health, 
and not unconscious that her present situation was one 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 311 

of peculiar delicacy, Miss Aboyne would have indeed 
preferred that the Rector and Lady Octavia's visit to Sea 
Vale should have been deferred till after her union with 
Horace Vernon. Perhaps if he had, at that moment, 
more seriously enforced his jesting petition, to be forth- 
with admitted to the peaceful sanctuary of Millicent's 
cottage, she might have been induced to rescind her for- 
mer decision, and cede to him, without further delay, the 
possession of herself and of her little dwelling. But 
Vernon talked away his vexation, and Millicent kept 
hers within her own heart, secretly chiding its utter 
unreasonableness ; for what would the stranger be to 
her ? She should not see or be seen by them but at 
church, and then, why need she shrink from observation, 
— if, indeed, one so insignificant should attract any ? 

The preparations at the rectory went briskly on, and 
as the new "and elegant articles of ornamental furniture 
were unpacked, Vernon insensibly became interested in 
examing them, and superintending the arrangements of 
Lady Octavia's boudoir. An elegant harp was extracted 
from its cumbrous case by a servant intrusted with the 
key, and, together with music-stands and stools, a paint- 
ing easel, sundry portfolios, inlaid work-boxes, &c. &c, 
disposed in picturesque order in the dedicated chamber, 
and a pile of Italian music, two or three volumes of 
Italian and English poems, some French novels, and 
one of Schiller's dramas in the original, arranged with 
good effect on the different tables and chiffonnieres 
by the well-trained footmen, gave the tout-ensemble 
an air of so much literary elegance, as failed not to 
make due impression on Vernon's tasteful imagination, 
and in some measure to soften down his prejudice 
(so unwarrantably imbibed !) against the unknown pos- 
sessor. But still he had settled in his own mind, that 



312 CHURCHYARDS CHAP. XXII. 

in her deportment to himself, she would be reserved, 
distant, and disagreeable ; and he promised himself to be 
as little as possible in her august presence. This pre- 
conception and predetermination savoured far less of 
judicious reasoning and amiable humility, than of igno- 
rance of the world, and lurking vanity and pride ; but it 
has been observed, that the latter were among Vernon's 
besetting sins, and the former was the unavoidable result 
of circumstances. 

The important day arrived, and from the porch of Miss 
Aboyne's cottage, (in and out of which he had been 
fidgeting for the last hour,) Vernon spied a travelling 
carriage and four descending the hilly approach into Sea 
Vale. " There they are, Milly !" he exclaimed, sudden- 
ly letting fall her arm that had been resting on his, and 
starting involuntarily a few paces forward — «' and I must 
be gone to receive the Doctor and that fine Lady Oc- 
tavia. It's all your fault, Milly, when I might have re- 
mained here, if you had pleased, and been independent 
of all this fuss and bustle; 5 ' and he turned back and 
took both her hands, gazing on her for a moment with a 
look of reproachful tenderness. " And how pretty and 
quiet everything here looks this evening!" he added, 
glancing round him ; " and we should have had some 
music in the honeysuckle arbour now you can sing again, 
Milly." — " Perhaps," replied she, faintly smiling, « Lady 
Octavia will sing to you." — " Oh ! if she were to con- 
descend so far, I should hate her singing ; and that fine 
harp would never sound half so sweet to me as the dear 
old guitar, Milly." — Millicent thanked him with a look 
for the fond unreasonableness of the lover-like assertion, 
and then hastened him away to receive, with honour due, 
his honourable and reverend Rector. To say the truth, 
when his really affectionate feelings for her had given 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 313 

utterance to those few hurrying words, he did not seem 
very loath to obey her injunction ; and, when he had 
cleared the green lane at three bounds, and turned the 
corner towards the rectory, he stopped a moment to 
take off his hat, run his fingers through the bright waves 
of his fine thick hair, and pull up his shirt-collar to the 
most becoming altitude. 

The rectory and Miss Aboyne's cottage were situated 
at opposite extremities of the straggling village ; and the 
distance between the two habitations being so inconsi- 
derable, Millicent thought it not improbable she might 
see Horace again that evening, after Dr Hartop's late 
dinner, or before the hour of retiring. More than once 
after twilight, and in spite of the fast falling dews, she 
returned to the garden gate, to listen if a well-known 
footstep were coming down the lane; and that night, 
long after the usual hour of its disappearance, a light was 
burning in Millicent's little parlour. But it was extin- 
guished at last ; and all was darkness, and quiet, and 
sweet rest probably, under the humble roof of the or- 
phan's cottage. 

The next morning, as Millicent was seated at her 
early breakfast, the little casement opened from without, 
and Vernon's handsome face, radiant with smiles and 
cheerfulness, looked in between the clustering roses. 
" What vulgar hours you keep, Milly," said he ; " I'm 
positively ashamed of you, Miss Aboyne ! We are in 
our first sleep yet at the rectory, and sha'n't breakfast 
these three hours." 

" Look, then," she smilingly replied, " at this tempt- 
ing bowl of rich new milk, and this brown bread, and 
fresh yellow butter of Nora's own making — and the tea 
is as strong as you like it — see ! — and such cream ! — 
there can be none such at the rectory. Won't all these 



314 CHURCHYARDS CHAP. XXII. 

delicacies tempt you to breakfast with me ? " — (£ Half of 
them — the least of them, dearest ! " he answered, twist- 
ing himself dexterously in through the window, demo- 
lishing a whole garland of roses, and upsetting a work- 
table and a glass of flowers, in his unceremonious entree ; 
in spite of which high crime and misdemeanour, in two 
minutes he was seated with the ease of perfect innocence 
at Miss Aboyne's breakfast table, and there was no trace 
of stern displeasure in the face of the fair hostess, as she 
poured out for him the promised basin of potent green 
tea. 

" You were right enough, Milly ! " said Vernon, after 
demolishing a huge fragment of Nora's sweet brown loaf 
— (for it is a truth to be noted, that lovers as well as 
heroes never forget to " appease the rage of hunger") — 
" You were right enough, Milly ! Lady Octavia is not 
half so disagreeable as I expected to find her. In fact, 
she is really agreeable on the whole ; certainly a lovely 
creature ! — and she and Dr Hartop were both exceeding- 
ly polite to me ; but somehow I felt but half at ease. 
The Doctor's civility is so pompous, and now and then 
I could have fancied Lady Octavia too condescending. I 
wished myself here more than once in the course of the 
evening, but could not get away : for first the Doctor 
pinned me down to three games of backgammon" — 
" And then, I dare say, you had music, had you not ? " 
asked Millicent. " Yes, Lady Octavia played all the 
time I was engaged with her uncle, and put me sadly 
out, by the by ; for she plays so divinely, there was no 
attending to the game." — " So I suppose by this time 
you like the harp almost as well as the guitar ? " said 
Miss Aboyne, with an arch glance at her companion. — 
" Not I, indeed ! " replied Vernon, quickly, with a rather 
heightened colour ; " though, to be sure, Lady Octavia 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 315 

was amazingly condescending- — very considerate of the 
poor curate's ignorance and rusticity. She had been 
singing Italian while I was playing with her uncle — some 
of our favourite things, Milly ; — but when the game was 
finished, and I approached the harp, her ladyship said, 
in the sweetest tone possible, ' I dare say you would 
rather have some English song, Mr Vernon ; perhaps I 
may find one or two among this unintelligible stuff,' and 
out she rummaged ' The Woodpecker ' — my aversion, 
you know, Milly ! '' — Millicent, who knew Vernon's pas- 
sionate taste for Italian music and poetry, (she herself, 
admirably taught by her father, had perfected him in the 
language,) could not help laughing at his evidently net- 
tled recital of Lady Octavia's considerate kindness in 
lowering her performance to the supposed level of his 
comprehension; but perceiving, with a woman's quick 
perception in such matters, that even her innocent mirth 
was not contagious, (it is a nice affair to jest with wound- 
ed vanity,) she unaffectedly changed the subject, by draw- 
ing him into the garden, where she required his assist- 
ance in some trifling office about her hyacinths, and soon 
beguiled him again into smiles and good-humour ; and at 
last engaged him to accompany her own sweet voice, and 
the old fine-toned guitar, in one of his favourite harmo- 
nies — not Italian, indeed, but a Scotch air of exquisite 
pathos, which had many a time before exorcised the foul 
fiend when its spell of fretfulness and despondency was 
cast over him. 

Among the simple pleasures dear to Miss Aboyne, 
one of the greatest had ever been, from earliest woman- 
hood, the quiet luxury of an evening walk ; and now, in 
later life, that innocent pleasure had not only lost nothing 
of its pleasantness, but the charm of association, and the 
pensive joy of memory, cast a more hallowed tone over 



316 CHURCHYARDS CHAP. XXII. 

the hour of her favourite enjoyment. For many weeks, 
nay months, after her father's death, the impaired health 
of his sorrowing- child incapacitated her from stirring- be- 
yond the narrow boundary of her own little garden ; but 
of late, so much of health and strength had she regained, 
that, with the support of Vernon's arm, she had adven- 
tured to some distance from her home, and even beyond 
the village ; and as the warm pleasant spring weather be- 
came more genial and confirmed, Millicent's fluctuating- 
cheek became tinted with more permanent hues of 
health ; and every evening she was able to extend her 
walk a little and a little further, with her unfailing and 
attentive companion. 

Those only who have languished under the pressure 
of a lingering enervating malady, more trying perhaps to 
the moral frame than many acute disorders, can conceive 
the exquisite enjoyment of feeling enabled, by gradually 
reviving strength, once more to wander out beyond some 
narrow limits, within which the feeble frame has long- 
been captive, to breathe the fresh free air of meadow or 
common, or the perfume of green briery lanes, skirting 
the clover or the bean field, the still requisite support of 
some kind arm ever punctually ready at an accustomed 
hour to lead forth the grateful convalescent. How im- 
patiently is that hour expected ! — and should any thing- 
occur to protract or mar the promised pleasure, how far 
more acutely felt is that privation than so trifling a dis- 
appointment should seem to warrant ! Far heavier crosses 
may be borne with more equanimity, at less cost of rea- 
son and self-control. 

So of late had Millicent longed for the hour of the 
evening walk — the hour when her capabilities of enjoy- 
ment, physical and intellectual, were ever keenest — when 
Vernon, released from his own peculiar duties and avo- 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 317 

cations, came, punctual almost to a moment, to be her 
companion for the remainder of the day, to afford her the 
support of his arm as far as her gradually returning 
strength enabled her to wander ; and then, re-entering 
the cottage in tranquil happiness, to share with her the 
pure pleasures of reading, music, or sweeter converse, 
till her early hour of retiring. No wonder poor Millicent 
had fallen into the habit of longing for the return of 
evening ! But now, for a season she must cease to do 
so. At least she must be content with uncertain, perhaps 
unfrequent and hurried visits from Vernon, after the late 
dinner at the rectory ; and Miss Aboyne had too much 
good sense and delicacy not to feel, and even enforce 
upon Horace, the propriety and common courtesy of 
giving his society, for at least the greater part of most 
evenings, to the host at whose table he was a constant 
guest. And truly, in the perfect seclusion of Sea Vale, 
and the present deranged state of Dr Hartop's health, 
which precluded him from inviting to the rectory any of 
those who might, perhaps, have charitably bartered a 
portion of their precious time for the reverend gentleman's 
exquisite cuisine and old hockkeimer, (not to mention the 
attractions of his lovely niece,) — the ready-made society 
of the young curate — his qualifications of backgammon- 
playing — of listening deferentially to long prosing stories, 
when the Doctor was disposed to tell them, or, when the 
latter was slumberously inclined, of discreetly and noise- 
lessly stealing away to the drawing-room and Lady 
Octavia's harp, thereby contributing, in the dearth of 
stronger stimuli, to keep the young lady in that flow of 
good-humour so conducive to her uncle's comfort. These 
several qualifications, combined with the gentlemanly 
manners and unexceptionable character of Vernon, made 
his society too valuable at Sea Vale Rectory not to be 



318 CHURCHYARDS CHAI\ XXII. 

monopolized there, with as much exacting selfishness as 
could be exercised consistently with Dr Hartop's natural 
indolence and habitual good breeding-. 

Lady Octavia also conceived an amiable and imme- 
diate interest for the handsome, unsophisticated young 
curate, and forthwith set her fertile imagination to trace 
out the rough draft of a philanthropic plan for " making 
something of him," during the summer seclusion to which 
she had so dutifully devoted herself. No passion is so vulgar 
or so vulgarizing as an insatiate love of indiscriminate 
admiration. The high-born and high-bred Lady Octavia 
Falkland, habituated as she was to the refined incense 
of courtly circles, would have condescended to smile on 
her uncle's apothecary, rather than have wasted "her 
sweetness on the desert air." Vernon was comparatively 
an unexceptionable protege, and her benevolent scheme 
in his favour was by no means " nipped i' th' bud,'' by 
the information communicated by Mrs Jenkins, while 
assisting her lady to undress on the night of her arrival 
at Sea Vale Rectory, of his engagement with Miss i\boyne. 
"What a stupid affair that must be!" soliloquized the 
Lady Octavia ; " and how charitable it will be to give 
' the gentle shepherd,' really so tolerable a creature, some 
idea of la belle passion in its higher refinements — of the 
tastes and enjoyments of civilized society, before he is 
buried for ever in a country parish, with a dowdy wife 

and a parcel of chubby cherubs I suppose," observed her 

ladyship, more directly addressing herself to the con- 
fidential attendant — " I suppose this, Miss — What d'ye 
call her ? — is some rustic beauty, all lilies, and roses, and 
flaxen curls ; for really Mr Vernon is so good looking, 
and so tolerable altogether, he would not have picked out 
a fright." 

" Oh ! they say she's very genteel, my lady ! — (Miss 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 319 

Abine's her name, my lady !) — and used to be estimated 
rather handsome formerly, before she lost her father, and 
fell into ill health — and she's not so young as she has 
been." 

" Why, Mr Vernon can't be more than five or six 
and twenty, and it's impossible he can be in love with 
any thing as old as that, when there can be no agremens 
to make amends for the want of youth." 

" Oh I Mr Vernon's seven-and-twenty, my lady ! and 
Miss Abine's near three years older." 

" Three years older ! — what, almost thirty ? — You 
must be mistaken, Jenkins ; Mr Vernon could never 
have engaged himself so absurdly; — but it's an old affair, 
you said, didn't you, Jenkins ? Quite a take-in then, 
no doubt ; for I suppose she has been good-looking — 
and boys are so easily caught ! It's amazing how artful 
some old spiders are ! — There's Lady William Lorimer 
always contrives to hook in all the best men, somehow. 
But then she's married — that's one thing;" and so saying, 
the fair Octavia's head sank on her soft pillow, to dream of 
old spiders and young flies, the philanthropic pleasure of 
rescuing some fluttering innocent from the web of its 
wily destroyer, and the peculiar privileges and advan- 
tages of married ladies. 

If Vernon's evening visits to the cottage became com- 
paratively short and unfrequent after the arrival of the 
strangers, during the earlier part of their sojourn at the 
rectory, he generally made his appearance at Millicent's 
early breakfast table, and devoted to her as great a part 
of every morning as he could abstract from his parochial 
duties — duties from which she would have been the last 
to entice him ; and once he had stolen away during Dr 
Hartop's after-dinner nap — not to the rectory drawing- 
room and Lady Octavia, but to the cottage parlour and 



320 CHURCHYARDS CHAP. XXII. 

its gentle occupant, whose delighted and grateful surprise 
at sight of the unexpected visiter, made him first fully 
sensible of what she (the least selfish and exacting of 
human beings) had never even hinted — how lonely she 
had been in his absence ; and he fancied, besides, that an 
appearance of more than usual languor was perceptible 
about her, though at sight of him a rich and beautiful 
glow suffused her before colourless cheek, and her sweet 
eyes glistened (not sparkled) with affectionate welcome, 
as she exclaimed, " Dear Horace ! is it you ? — How good 
you are to steal away to me ! But could you do so 
without incivility ? — what will they think at the rec- 
tory ?" 

" I don't care what they think, Milly!" replied Vernon 
quickly. " This is all very wrong — very hard upon us. 
Here you sit, left alone, evening after evening, deprived 
of exercise — of the quiet walks we so enjoyed together ; 
and I am sure, though you said nothing, you have missed 
them very much. Why did you not take Nora's arm, 
and stroll out this fine evening, Milly?" 

" Oh ! I did not care to walk without you, dear Horace, 
and Nora is busy in her dairy at this hour, you know ; 
and besides," she added with a cheerful smile, " I am 
very busy also, and shall get through a marvellous deal 
of work now you are not here to make me idle." That 
evening, however, Millicent was but too happy to relin- 
quish her notable employment for pleasant idleness, and 
sweet companionship, and the reviving freshness of the 
bright green fields. The lovers talked together of their 
approaching union, their unambitious hopes of quiet 
happiness, their plans of active usefulness and wise fru- 
gality to be patiently and firmly pursued, till the better 
times, still prospectively before them, should arrive, to 
recompense them for the cheerful endurance of tempo- 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 321 

rary privations. While they thus held sweet converse 
together, insensibly, as the evening- shadows blended into 
twilight, assuming a more serious and tender tone, well 
befitting the discourse of friends who spoke of travelling 
together through time into eternity — while they thus 
held sweet converse, and Vernon listened to the low 
accents of Millicent's voice — so tender in its melodious 
inflections — so touching as it breathed forth, with tre- 
mulous earnestness, the inmost thoughts and feelings of 
her pure and pious heart, he felt— felt deeply — the sur- 
passing worth of the treasure committed to his care ; 
and perhaps a vague, an almost indefinite, emotion of 
self-reproach, mingled with the tender impulse which 
caused him to press more affectionately close the arm 
which rested upon his, and to look round with moistened 
eyes on the calm sweet seriousness of that saintlike 
countenance, upraised to his with the innocent confidence 
of an angel's love. " After all," said Vernon to himself 
as he retraced his solitary way that night to the rectory 
— " after all, my own Millicent is as superior to that 
brilliant Lady Octavia, as is yon beautiful pale moon to 
the bright meteor which has just shot earthward." What 
inference may be drawn from this soliloquy as to the 
nature of foregone comparisons floating in Vernon's 
mind within the circle of Lady Octavia's fascinations, we 
leave to the judicious reader's opinion ; — certain it is, 
that the last fervent conclusion was the genuine sponta- 
neous effusion of sincere and affectionate conviction. 

The next day was Sunday, and Vernon had promised 
to be at the cottage early enough to conduct Millicent to 
church, and to her own pew adjoining the rector's, before 
the general entrance of the congregation ; for though he 
assured her that Dr Hartop considered himself still too 
much a valetudinarian to encounter the fatigues of early 

x 



322 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XXII. 

rising and morning church, and that there was little 
chance, from what he had observed, of Lady Octavia's 
attending the first service, Millicent had a nervous dread 
of walking alone up the long aisle, subjected to the pos- 
sible gaze of strangers, and gladly accepted the promise 
of Vernon's early escort. 

But Fate and Lady Octavia had ordered otherwise. 
Contrary to Vernon's " foregone conclusion," and just as 
he was hastening away to the cottage, it was sweetly 
signified to him by Mrs Jenkins, that her lady, who had 
hitherto taken breakfast about eleven in her own boudoir, 
would that morning have the pleasure of making tea for 
Mr Vernon, from whom she should afterwards request 
the favour of conducting her to the rectory pew. The 
lady trode on the heels of her message. The breakfast- 
room was thrown open, and she led the way into it with 
gracious smiles and winning courtesy, Vernon following 
in such a bewilderment of annoyance at being thus com- 
pelled to break his engagement with Millicent, and of 
admiration for Lady Octavia's blooming graces and capti- 
vating sweetness, that he quite forgot it would have been 
at least expedient to send a message to the cottage ; and, 
strange as it may seem, by the time breakfast was half 
over, Vernon had actually ceased to think of any object 
in heaven or earth beyond the interior of the rectory 
parlour. 

As Lady Octavia took his arm on proceeding towards 
the church, however, a thought darted across him of her 
who was at that very moment expecting the promised 
support of that very arm in affectionate security ; and for 
a few minutes he was troubled and distrait, and made 
irrelevant answers to Lady Octavia's remarks and ques- 
tions. Her ladyship had too much tact to notice the 
temporary abstraction ; and, before they reached the 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 323 

thronged churchyard, Vernon's thoughts were again en- 
grossed by the charms of his fascinating companion, and 
his besetting sin — his lurking vanity — was not a little 
excited by her flattering condescension, and the eclat of 
making so public an appearance with the high-born 
beauty familiarly leaning on his arm. It was not until 
he had conducted the fair stranger through the double 
file of gazers that lined the long central aisle up to the 
rector's pew, and left her there, properly accommodated 
with hassock and prayer-book, and till he had withdrawn 
to put on his surplice in the vestry — it was not till then 
that a thought of Millicent again recurred to him. But 
then it did recur, and so painfully, that even after he had 
ascended the pulpit, and was about to commence that 
sacred office which should have abstracted his mind from 
all worldly concerns, he found it impossible to restrain 
his wandering and troubled thoughts; and his heart 
smote him, when, glancing downwards on the assembled 
congregation, his eyes rested on the empty pew where 
poor Millicent should have been already seated, and that 
immediately adjoining already occupied by the fair stran- 
ger whom he had conducted thither. 



324 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XXIII, 



CHAPTER XXIII. 

It was the custom at Sea Vale Church to beg-in the first 
service with the morning- hymn, not one verse of which 
was ever omitted by the zealous throats of the villag-e 
choristers ; and on this particular morning-, those sweet 
singers of Israel, in concert — or rather out of concert — with 
bassoon and bass viol, had groaned, "droned, and quavered 
through the first five verses, when the church-door front- 
ing the pulpit, at the end of the long middle aisle, slowly 
opened, and two female forms appeared at it. One, the 
humble homely person of Nora Carthy, dropped aside 
into some obscure corner ; and Miss Aboyne, who had 
been leaning on the arm of her faithful attendant, came 
slowly and timidly up the long aisle with ill-assured and 
faltering steps, her tall slender form bending under evi- 
dent languor and weakness. She still wore the deepest 
and plainest mourning, and her face was almost entirely 
concealed by a large bonnet, and a long crape veil. On 
reaching the door of her own pew, her tremulous hand 
— even from that distance Vernon saw that it trembled — 
found some difficulty in unhasping it, and an old grey- 
haired man started forward from his bench in the aisle to 
render her that little service, in return for which she 
gently inclined her head, and in another moment had 
sunk on her knees in the furthest corner of the pew. 

Vernon saw all this, too well recalling to mind poor 
Millicent's nervous anxiety to be quietly seated in church 
before the arrival of strangers ; and he saw, besides, what 
he hoped had been unperceived by Miss Aboyne through 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 325 

her thick veil, that Lady Octavia had stood up in her 
pew to gaze on the late comer, as she slowly advanced up 
the church, and was still taking leisurely survey through 
an eye-glass of her kneeling figure. Vernon observed all 
this with acutely painful consciousness, and when the 
hymn was concluded, it was only by a powerful effort 
that he applied himself seriously to his solemn duty. 

When next he glanced towards Miss Aboyne's pew, 
(while the first psalm was being sung,) her veil was flung 
back, and he observed with pleasure that her sweet coun- 
tenance wore its wonted expression of perfect serenity, 
and that she was too intent on the sacred words in her 
hymn-book, and too much engrossed by the utterance of 
her tribute of prayer and praise, to be sensible that the 
brilliant eyes of her fair neighbour, still assisted by the 
raised eye-glass, were fixed in curious scrutiny of her per- 
son and features. In truth, Miss Aboyne had perfectly 
recovered the nervous trepidation which had distressed 
her on first entering the church ; awful consciousness of 
the Creator's presence soon superseded all thought of the 
creature in her pious heart ; and when at last her eyes 
caught an accidental glance of her fair neighbour, the 
only feeling that for a moment drew her earthward, was 
one of admiration for Lady Octavia's striking loveliness. 
In her entire abstraction from self, not even did the 
consciousness occur that she herself was the object of 
curious, and not polite — though it might be fashionable 
— examination. 

Millicent had attributed to its true cause the non-per- 
formance of Vernon's promise to be early that morning 
at the cottage. She surmised that he might have been 
unexpectedly detained to accompany Lady Octavia to 
church; and well aware that he could not courteously 
have declined that office if proposed to him, she only re- 



328 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XXIII. 

gretted that, having been delayed by lingering expectation 
till the last possible moment, she should now have to 
encounter the redoubled ordeal of walking up the church 
alone, through the assembled congregation. Nora, in- 
deed — whose arm, in default of Vernon's, was put in 
requisition — the warm-hearted, quick-spirited Nora — was 
fain to mutter some tart reflection about " new comers,'' 
and " fine doings," and " no notion of it," as she accom- 
panied her fair mistress to church ; but the more candid 
Millicent only smiled at the jealous discomposure of her 
fond nurse, who shook her head incredulously at the as- 
surance that Vernon would come and make his innocence 
clear, the moment he was at liberty to steal away for a 
few moments to the cottage. And such indeed was his 
full intention, when, on hastening back from unrobing 
after service, he found Lady Octavia awaiting his escort 
homewards, and that Miss Aboyne was already out of 
sight. When they had reached the rectory, Dr Hartop 
was already seated at his luxurious luncheon — the mid- 
day dinner of modern times — and Vernon was pressed to 
partake before he mounted his horse for the church (some 
five miles from Sea Vale) at which he was to do after- 
noon duty. 

Suddenly Lady Octavia was seized with a devout desire 
of attending that second service, and her phaeton was 
ordered to the door, and it was quickly arranged that she 
should drive Vernon to Eastwood Church, from which 
they were to return by a more circuitous, but very beauti- 
ful road, which her ladyship (as suddenly smitten with 
a passion for picturesque as well as holy things) expressed 
a vehement desire to explore. Dr Hartop gave a re- 
luctant assent to this arrangement, not from any pruden- 
tial scruples respecting Lady Octavia's tete-a-tete with 
the handsome curate, as he felt comfortably assured her 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 327 

ladyship's views of an " establishment" were as remote 
as possible from the beau-ideal of a cottage and a black- 
berry pudding; but the honourable and reverend doctor 
rationally anticipated that the protracted drive might in- 
terfere with his regular dinner hour, and from this solid 
ground of objection it required all Lady Octavia's powers 
of coaxing and persuasion to win him over to unwilling 
concession. 

The road from Sea Vale to Eastwood, lay through the 
former village, close to Miss Aboyne's cottage at its out- 
skirts. As they approached the little dwelling, Vernon 
sent onward an uneasy furtive glance, and felt annoyed 
and uncomfortable at the slow pace in which it seemed 
just then the pleasure of his fair conductress to indulge 
her beautiful bay ponies. He wished — yet wherefore was 
almost undefinable to himself — that Miss Aboyne might 
not be visible as they passed the cottage, and that they 
might pass it unobserved by her. But the wish, vague as 
it was, had scarcely arisen, when Lady Octavia, reining in 
her ponies to a walk, exclaimed — " What a sweet cot- 
tage ! — a perfect cottage that, Mr Vernon ; — and there's 
the person who sat in the next pew to my uncle's 
at church this morning, looking so wretchedly forlorn and 
sickly, but really genteel for that sort of person, and must 
have been rather pretty when she was young, poor thing! 
Do you know who she is, Mr Vernon ?" — " A Miss 
Aboyne, daughter of a Colonel Aboyne, lately dead — a 
friend of mine," replied Vernon confusedly, and colour- 
ing, with a consciousness that he did so not tending to 
remove his embarrassment. 

At that moment, Millicent, who was standing among 
her flower-beds, looked up at the sound of wheels, and 
their eyes encountered. A bright flush passed over her 
pale cheek, as she gave Vernon a half smile of recogni- 



328 CHURCHYARDS. — CHAP. XXIII. 

tion, and quietly resumed her occupation of tying" up a 
tall lily, her face shaded by a large bonnet from further 
observation. Lady Octavia took another deliberate sur- 
vey of Miss Aboyne through her eye-glass, and having 
so far satisfied her curiosity, continued, in a careless, 
half-absent manner—" Oh ! a friend of yours, you said, 
Mr Vernon? — this person's father — I beg- your pardon 
though — she looks really very respectable, poor thing ! 
quite interesting in that deep mourning-. Of course, as 
you know her, she is not a low person — some Colonel's 
daughter though, you said, I think ? and is he lately 
dead ? and does she live all alone in that pretty cottage ? 
How excessively romantic ! and it does not signify for 
that sort of person, at her age, you know. I suppose she 
is very poor — some half-pay officer's daughter?" Vernon 
stammered something, not very intelligible, in reply to 
Lady Octavia's half question, half soliloquy ; but her 
ladyship talked on, apparently heedless of his conscious, 
embarrassed manner. 

" Do you know, Mr Vernon, that my maid is a half- 
pay officer's daughter — really a very superior sort of 
person is Jenkins. Why does not this Miss — I forget 
her name — go out in some such capacity ? or as a gover- 
ness ? — you know, she might get into some family as 
governess." — Vernon's latent spirit and real affection for 
Millicent being somewhat roused by these annoying com- 
ments and interrogations, he was just about to speak more 
plainly, and would probably have silenced Lady Octavia's 
voluble malice, by the simple avowal of the relation in 
which he stood to Miss Aboyne, when her ladyship, who 
guessed the coming confession, which it was by no means 
her intention to draw forth, adroitly diverted her observa- 
tions from Miss Aboyne to the surrounding scenery; and 
before they had well lost sight of Sea Vale, Vernon's 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 329 

spirited impulse had subsided, and he was again engrossed 
by Lady Octavia, and the gratification of being so gra- 
ciously distinguished by the high-born beauty. But 
Lady Octavia's shafts had not glanced harmless ; more 
than one point remained rankling in the mark; and with 
the next disengaged hour and thought of Millicent came 
hitherto unformed reflections in the lingering lot of 
poverty and obscurity to which they were possibly 
about to devote themselves, and an involuntary compari- 
son between their ages for the first time occurred to him, 
in a light that made him wish the difference had been re- 
versed, and that he could count those two years in advance 
of Millicent. But his better feelings caused him to check, 
almost as soon as conceived, thoughts that were now as 
ill-timed as ungenerous towards that gentle and confiding 
being, the most sincere and lowly-minded of all God's crea- 
tures, who had been long beforehand with him in regret- 
ting for his sake, her seniority of age, and had not shrunk 
from commenting on it to himself, with characteristic 
ingenuousness ; for she felt, though he would not ac- 
knowledge it, that her prime was already past, while he 
had barely attained the full flush of maturity. But 
Millicent's self-depreciation was wholly untinctured with 
any jealous doubt of Vernon's true affection for her, and 
indifference to the more youthful attractions of other 
women ; and as he passed the cottage with his beautiful 
companion, if a sudden and natural comparison presented 
itself between the blooming loveliness of the latter, andher 
own more humble pretensions, it was only accompanied by 
a wish — a woman's fond, weak wish — that, for his sake, 
she were younger, and fairer, and every way more de- 
serving of the love, of which, however, she apprehended 
no diminution. 

Dr Hartop's fears were prophetic ; the picturesque 



330 CHURCHYARDS. — CHAP. XXIII. 

circuit home delayed the arrival of Lady Octavia and 
Vernon so long past the dinner hour, that the doctor's 
habitually urbane and placid temper would have been 
seriously discomposed, had he not that morning-, in the 
course of a long visit from Mr Henderson, the Sea Vale 
iEsculapius, acquired some information respecting the 
matrimonial engagements of his young curate, and the 
circumstances thereto relating, which, in the dearth of 
more interesting gossip, was not only acceptable to the 
worthy rector's craving appetite and accommodating 
taste, but would furnish him, par les suites, with a fair 
field for indulging his benevolent propensity and peculiar 
talent for giving gratuitous advice with patronizing con- 
descension. Therefore he looked but tenderly reproachful 
at Lady Octavia, though the fins of the turbot were 
boiled to rags, and various other dishes, reduced to con- 
sommes, gave touching testimony of her cruel incon- 
sideration ; and scarcely had the servants left the dining 
room, when, giving three preliminary hems, and an 
inward chuckle, with which he was wont to preface his 
discourses in the pulpit and elsewhere, the honourable 
rector addressed his curate with a formal congratulation 
on his approaching marriage. Vernon's face crimsoned 
all over, as he bowed and stammered out a few words of 
awkward acknowledgment, stealing impulsively a furtive 
glance at Lady Octavia, who, affecting the most natural 
surprise in the world, artlessly exclaimed — " Married ! — 
Mr Vernon going to be married, uncle? — you don't say 
so ? Oh, Mr Vernon, how secret you have been I — and 
may we know to whom, uncle ?" — " To a most unexcep- 
tionable and every way respectable and amiable young 
person, as I have this morning had the pleasure of learn- 
ing from a friend of yours, my dear Mr Vernon ! — from 
good Mr Henderson, who tells me that Miss Aboyne" 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART, 331 

" Miss Aboyne!" interrupted Lady Octavia, with 

a pretty shriek of sudden dismay ; " dear me ! who could 

have thought it ? I would not for the world have" 

" You know Miss Aboyne, then ?" asked the doctor with 
some surprise, in his turn interrupting Lady Octavia. — 
" Oh J I saw her to-day at church ; and indeed she seems 
— she looks — that is, a — a very superior sort of person — 
I dare say very amiable, and excellent, and — You'll intro- 
duce me to Miss Aboyne, Mr Vernon ? I assure you I 
am dying to know her.'' 

Vernon, now compelled to speak, made some awkward 
attempts to explain, that Miss Aboyne, from ill health 
and recent affliction, would not perhaps be able to avail 
herself of the honour of an introduction to Lady Octavia; 
and then the doctor, impatient of colloquial trifling, which 
delayed the pouring forth of his luminous and well- 
digested ideas, proceeded to favour Vernon, not only 
with his entire approbation of the projected union, but 
with an elaborate dissertation on domestic economy, by 
attending to the several branches whereof (which he 
condescended to dwell on more particularly) a country 
curate might maintain a wife and family, and bring up a 
score of children, with infinite comfort and propriety, on 
an income short of a hundred and fifty pounds per annum. 
" Of course, my dear Mr Vernon I" the reverend gentle- 
man went on to observe, " there can be no expensive 
luxuries, no idle superfluities, in such a modest and well- 
ordered establishment. But, after all, my dear sir I how 
little suffices for our real wants; and beyond those, what 
Christian character or philosophic mind would Oc- 
tavia ! do, pray, desire that the gardener may be written 
to about these pines ; it is really scandalous ! — they cost 
me a guinea a-piece, and this is the second I have cut to- 
day, and bothuneatable. Send me the guava But, 



332 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XXIII. 

as I was proceeding to observe — as I was going- on to 
remark to you, Mr Vernon — beyond our real necessities, 
(mere food and raiment,) what physical wants and tem- 
poral cares are worthy the consideration of a Christian 
and a philosopher? It bath been truly said — 



' Man wants but little here below, 
Nor wants that little long.' 



And with regard to the article of food especially, I am 
persuaded, Mr Vernon, and after long and mature deli- 
beration on the subject, I feel no hesitation in declaring 
my entire conviction, that in no part of the united king- 
dom is the infant population more hale, healthful, and 
multitudinous, than where oatmeal or potatoes, with 
milk, or even pure water, forms its unvaried and unso- 
phisticated aliment. Therefore, my dear sir, with regard 
to your future family, (those numerous olive branches 
with which it is my sincere prayer that Providence may 
surround your table,) I have no hesitation in strenuously 

advising" 

What the doctor proceeded to advise must remain for 
ever secret between himself and Vernon, whose feelings, 
during the present harangue, can only be compared to 
those of a person undergoing the " peine forte et dure," 
and who experienced proportionable relief when Lady 
Octavia, tired of continuing a silent tiers, arose to retire. 
As she passed him at the dining-room door, which he 
had hastened to hold open for her, she shook her fair 
head with a look of pretty anger, and archly putting up 
one taper forefinger to her rosy lip, said softly — " Oh, 
fie ! fie ! Mr Vernon ! — how treacherous you have been P 
Vernon slowly and reluctantly returned to his mitigated 
penance ; but far be it from us to review in detail the 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 333 

protracted torments of that mortal hour, during which 
the honourable and reverend gentleman, warmed with 
his own eloquence — charmed with his own theory — ex- 
alted with a sense of his own philanthropy, and with a 
consciousness of the lights which flowed in the faster as 
he continued to diffuse them — poured out his oracular 
suggestions with a condescending suavity that descended 
to the most minute particulars. At length, however, 
articulation thickened — sentences lagged at their termi- 
nation — words came slower — syllables dropped away to 
indefinite sounds — and at last, in a final bewilderment of 
— " As I was saying, Mr Vernon — I repeat, my dear sir ! 
— that — that — I have no hesitation — in af-af-fir-r-r" — 
the comfortable double chin of the respectable adviser 
sank, embedded in its own rolls, on his ample chest, an 
incipient snore chimed in with the struggling affirmation, 
and after an attempt or two of guttural thickness, which 
sounded like " pease-porridge — cheap and wholesome," 
and " Mrs Rundeil," broke out into a grand continuous 
bass. Then, quietly and cautiously, Vernon rose from 
his seat of torture — quietly and cautiously he stole to- 
wards the door ; but not so noiselessly did he effect his 
exit as to be wholly unnoticed by the half-conscious 
slumberer, whose drowsy attempts at articulation forth- 
with recommenced, but only to commission his curate, 
who thanked Heaven for his escape, with a message to 
the Lady Octavia. After the scene of his recent mortifi- 
cation, of which her ladyship had been a witness, Vernon 
would gladly, had he been permitted, have avoided an 
early tete-a-tete with her, and his heart told him he was 
anxiously expected elsewhere ; but the doctor's message 
must be delivered — it need not delay him three minutes ; 
and, with a determination that it should not, and hat in 
hand, he sprang up stairs, and into the drawing-room, 



334j churchyards. — chap, xxiii. 

from whence issued the sweet sounds of Lady Octavia's 
fine-toned harp and finer voice, deliriously blending in an 
aria of " Semiramide." Another voice, less powerful but 
more touching-, accompanied by an humbler instrument, 
was breathing out at this self- same hour, in the orphan's 
home, such strains as well befitted the Sabbath vesper. 
Often did that low melodious voice pause in a cadence, 
or hang suspended on a note, while the singer's head was 
suddenly upraised in a listening attitude, her long slender 
fingers suspended over the silent chords, and her eyes 
glancing anxiously through the little casement towards 
the garden gate. 

Again and again recurred that anxious pause ; each 
time the hymn resumed with tones less firm, and a more 
plaintive modulation — at last a deep and heavy sigh was 
the involuntary prelude ; and as Millicent withdrew her 
eyes from the window, tears, which had been long col- 
lecting within their lids, fell on her listless fingers as she 
bent over her instrument, and endeavoured to renew the 
sacred harmony. It was but an endeavour. Her voice 
had become weak and tremulous ; so, discontinuing the 
vocal tribute, she wisely resorted to silent communion 
with that book which contains " words in season" for all 
the soul's necessities — of peace for the disquieted — of 
strength to the weak — of healing to the sorely stricken — 
of hope to the broken-hearted. Millicent found there 
the aid she sought ; and when, as was her custom, she 
had joined with her old servant in their nightly sacrifice 
of prayer and praise, she was able again, and without 
effort, to smile cheerfully, and speak cheeringly to that 
faithful humble friend, the bursting indignation of whose 
affectionate zeal she endeavoured to repress, with a sincere 
assurance of her own conviction, that the morrow would 
bring with it a satisfactory explanation. 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 335 

Early the next morning — earlier even than Miss 
Aboyne's primitive breakfast hour, Vernon entered the 
little parlour just as Nora was removing the tea equipage. 
She scarcely vouchsafed to notice his entrance even with 
a look, and the grave severity of her countenance by no 
means tended to dispel the troubled surprise with which 
he had remarked her employment. "Nora!" he hur- 
riedly exclaimed — " what are you about ? — where is Miss 
Aboyne? — Not ill ? not ill, surely? — God forbid !" 

" About as well as some folks wish her to be, I doubt," 
shortly and bitterly replied the indignant Nora, as she 
essayed, without further parley, or even honouring him 
with a second glance, to pass Vernon with the tea-tray. 
But his fears were now too thoroughly awakened to per- 
mit her silent egress ; and, grasping her wrist more for- 
cibly than he was aware of, he said — " Nora ! Nora ! tell 
me, for God's sake, is she really ill? — is my Millicent" 

and his voice trembled with an excess of agitation 

that shook even Nora's predetermined inflexibility, and 
she so far relented as to inform him, (as, indeed, she had 
been especially enjoined, in case he should call thus 
early,) that Miss Aboyne was suffering only from head- 
ach, but would be well enough to rise and receive him 
a little later in the day. She could not find in her heart, 
however, to give the supplement of Millicent's message ; 
namely, that the headach was, she believed, but the effect 
of a slight cold which she had taken the preceding day. 
In lieu of that assurance, so affectionately intended to 
prevent self-reproach on the part of Vernon, the wrath- 
ful Nora, who had by no means any tender consideration 
for his feelings, took upon her to substitute an " amend- 
ment," imputing the headach to a sleepless night, and 
both the effect and its immediate cause to one far 
deeper, which she also vouched for on her own authority 



336 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XXIII. 

— the heartach ; and then, giving- way to the impulse of 
her warm and faithful spirit, the affectionate creature laid 
her hand on Vernon's shoulder, and while tears filled her 
eyes as she fixed them earnestly on his, exclaimed — 
" Oh, Mr Vernon ! Mr Vernon ! did I ever think it 
would have come to this ! — that my child ! my jewel ! 
the flower of the world ! Colonel Aboyne's daughter, 
should be slighted for that proud lady, who only came 
here to break my darling's heart, and help you to dig her 
grave, Mr Vernon ! Ay, there she'll be soon, sir ; and 
then you may go your ways and be happy." With which 
comfortable and comforting assurance, Nora pushed by 
with her breakfast-tray, followed, however, by Vernon, 
who, though his worst fears were relieved by the first part 
of her communication, still went on to ask a hundred 
anxious questions, and commission the half-relenting 
nurse with as many tender messages, though the latter 
was too discerning and honest to feel or affect great reli- 
ance on his assurance, that he should satisfactorily account 
to Miss Aboyne for his apparent neglect of the preceding 
day. 

The incredulous messenger conscientiously " told the 
tale as 'twas told to her," nevertheless, virtuously refrain- 
ing from comment on " how the truth might be;" and 
Millicent's heart was prompt to accept beforehand the 
promised explanation. 

During the watches of a sleepless night, it was im- 
possible but that troubled thoughts and vague surmises 
had crept into her mind, involuntarily and unencouraged, 
nay, quickly and perseveringly repressed, with the gener- 
ous confidence of a nature not prone to think evil ; but 
still thev returned like the phantoms of a feverish imagina- 
tion, and Millicent was indeed sick in spirit, as well as 
physically indisposed, when Nora first drew her curtains 



GRAVE OP THE BROKEN HEART. 337 

that morning-. But very soon the fresh air and the bright 
sunshine, entering at the unclosed lattice, brought with 
them sweet influences redolent of happier and more hope- 
ful feelings ; and when Nora soon after returned with her 
report of Vernon's early visit and affectionate messages, 
Millicent smiled with perfectly restored cheerfulness, in- 
wardly rebuking the weakness which had subjected her 
to such causeless uneasiness. Neither was she disappoint- 
ed that morning of the promised speedy return. Neither, 
on the part of Vernon, was any thing left unsaid to make his 
peace (had that been necessary) with one whose gentle bo- 
som harboured no accusing spirit ; and when he left her late 
and unwillingly — in truth it was always unwillingly that 
he did leave her — it was with a pledge to steal away to her 
again in time for one sweet hour of evening-walk, and 
more than one after-hour of social happiness in the dear 
little parlour, where so many a past evening had stolen 
away with the swift unsounding pace of unworldly inno- 
cent enjoyment. And punctual, as in former days, was 
Horace Vernon to the hour of tryst ; and never, perhaps, 
even in former days, had his voice and looks, when ad- 
dressing Millicent, expressed feelings so deep and tender. 
Those feelings were not excited by reviving attachment, 
for his true affection had never been alienated from their 
first object; but if his heart had not strayed from its al- 
legiance, his lighter fancy might have been more suscepti- 
ble of other fascinations ; and a consciousness of this sort, 
and that he had for a time forgotten her who ever thought 
of him, perhaps it was, that imparted a shade of more 
than usual seriousness that evening to the expression of 
his large dark eyes, and of peculiar tenderness to his tone 
and manner. And for many succeeding days, even Nora's 
lynx-eyed jealousy detected no cause for dissatisfaction 
in any part of his conduct ; and more than once Millicent 

Y 



338 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XXIII. 

him hastened from her side, where he was fain to linger, by- 
reminding him of the lateness of the hour, and the 
courtesy due, on his part, to his entertainers at the rec- 
tory. Of the fair lady who presided there, Vernon made 
less and less mention in his discourse with Millicent; 
though even now and again a few words, a hasty remark, 
escaped him, that might have impressed an indifferent 
observer with a persuasion that Lady Octavia's charms 
and opinions had, at leasts their due weight with her 
uncle's handsome curate ; and certainly the delightful 
naivete with which she had betrayed her admiration of his 
fine person and interesting character, had by no means 
depreciated Vernon's estimation of her ladyship's refined 
taste and superior judgment. Lady Octavia had also 
performed, to the life, a few sallies of artless indiscretion 
and amiable enthusiasm, from which the gentleman was 
not very slow to infer, that she discerned in him intel- 
lectual as well as personal qualities of a higher order than 
even his affectionate Millicent gave him credit for. She 
at least, had never administered that incense to his vanity 
which was so delicately, and of course unconsciously, of- 
fered by the Lady Octavia ; still less had Miss Aboyne, 
in the humble simplicity of her heart, ever dreamt of 
regretting for Horace, that Fate (whose agency in human 
affairs she was not indeed wont to acknowledge) had 
marked out for him the obscure lot of a country clergy- 
man. Millicent Aboyne could fancy no lot in life so 
peculiarly favoured. Lady Octavia Falkland had allowed 
Vernon to perceive that for him, capable as he was of — 
she never said exactly what — she considered it one of piti- 
able degradation. And there again, though Vernon's best 
feelings and more serious conviction sided with Millicent, 
the lurking weakness of his nature was grateful to Lady 
Octavia for her flattering prepossession. 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 339 

" Millicent certainly loves me with true affection," 
once or twice soliloquized Vernon; " and yet how strange 
it is that she should have no ambition for me — that she 
should see me with less partial eyes than one to whom, 
comparatively speaking-, I am nothing- — at least" — and 
then broke in something- very like a sigh — " to whom 
I can be nothing now ; but Milly has seen so little of the 
world, and Lady Octavia so much, and has such extraor- 
dinary insight into character ! — so much warmth of 
feeling ! — so much heart !" — Poor Millicent ! wert thou 
cold and heartless ? 



340 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XXIV. 



CHAPTER XXIV. 

A few days after Doctor Hartlop's memorable after- 
dinner communication, Lady Octavia signified to Vernon 
her intention of calling that morning at Sea Vale Cot- 
tage, which condescending attention on her part had 
been hitherto delayed by his report of Miss Aboyne's 
increased indisposition, and her inability to receive visits. 
That cause of exclusion having ceased to exist, however, 
he could no longer decline for Millicent the proffered 
courtesy. His own private reasons for wishing it could 
be altogether avoided, he did not perhaps analyse very 
curiously ; or rather he assured himself, that solely for 
Millicent's sake, who would in truth gladly have dis- 
pensed with the visit, he was thus considerately reluctant. 
But now Lady Octavia was predetermined ; she would 
go that morning — she would go directly — and Mr Ver- 
non must escort and introduce her. And before he had well 
got through two or three not very neatly- turned sentences 
expressive of his sense of her ladyship's kindness, and so 
on, he found himself with his noble and lovely charge at the 
entrance of Millicent's little cottage. In another minute 
Nora (who, to Vernon's horror and dismay, presented 
herself with a brown coarse wrapper, tucked up sleeves, 
and blue coddled arms evidently fresh from the suds) had 
thrown open the door of the small parlour where Milli- 
cent was sitting at work ; and Vernon's ruffled feelings 
were not smoothed to complacency by his quick nervous 
glance at the nature of her occupation, which was that of 
dividing, and folding with neat arrangement, certain 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 341 

lengths and squares of coarse dark household napery. 
Colouring- and confusedly, without raising his eyes to the 
countenances of either of the fair ladies, he hurried 
through the ceremony of introduction ; but the calm 
sweet tone of Millicent's voice encouraged him to look 
up, and then the natural grace and lady-like self-posses- 
sion with which she received her beautiful visiter, reliev- 
ed him in part from the uncomfortable feelings which 
which Lady Octavia's courteous ease and amiable fre- 
venance also contributing to dispel, he found himself in 
a few minutes conversing with his fair companions with 
tolerable composure. Still his restless eyes glanced ever 
and anon at the coarse unhemmed towels, and then at 
the direction of Lady Octavia's eyes- — and from her to 
Millicent, and again from Millicent to the titled beauty. 
Beautiful indeed the latter was at all times, but strikingly 
so at that moment. Lady Octavia had too much good 
taste, and too much confidence in the unassisted effect of 
her own charms, ever to overload them with fashionable 
frippery. Her costume that morning was a plain white 
muslin robe, setting off to the best advantage the per- 
fect symmetry of a figure, about which a large India 
shawl had been carelessly wrapped, and was now suffered 
to fall in picturesque drapery off one shoulder. A large 
straw hat, tied loosely with a broad green riband, also 
fell back as she seated herself, so as to leave nearly un- 
covered a bright profusion of auburn hair, beautifully 
disarranged by the fresh morning wind, which had also 
communicated a richer glow to the peach bloom of her 
young cheek, and a more sparkling vivacity to her laugh- 
ing eyes. Vernon saw that Miss Aboyne's eyes were 
rivetted admiringly on her lovely guest. His, but the 
moment before, had been drawing an involuntary com- 
parison between the youthful beauty and his own sweet 



342 CHURCHYARDS. — CHAP. XXIV. 

Millicent ; and if, on one hand, he was too forcibly 
struck with the contrast of the opening and the waning 
rose — of the sheltered blossom, and the storm-beat flower 
— he observed also, with affectionate pride, that the inte- 
resting and intellectual loveliness of Miss Aboyne, her 
simple dignity and natural elegance, lost nothing by the 
closest comparison with the brilliant graces and perfect 
finish of the Lady Octavia. 

With what extraordinary celerity will thoughts, deduc- 
tions, conclusions, and endless trains of ideas and images 
succeed each other on the magic lantern of the mind ! 
Vernon's mental mirror still reflected a confused and 
misty portraiture ; that of the Lady Octavia presented far 
more definite and well arranged conceptions. 

On her way to the cottage, she had been weighing in- 
teriorly the comparative amusement to be derived from 
patronizing Miss Aboyne, or breaking her heart — but 
her judgment rather inclined from the scale of patronage. 
In London, or in a full and fashionable neighbourhood? 
it might have been played off a merveille, with high 
credit to the protecting power ; but what could be done 
in that way at Sea Vale ? It would be more in charac- 
ter with that sweet seclusion to get up the other enter- 
tainment, which, with good management, might be 
wrought into a very pretty romance of real life, and last 
out the whole term of exile, leaving the catastrophe to 
ollow — for Lady Octavia's feelings were modelled much 
after the dramatic taste of our Gallic neighbours, which 
interdicts murder on the stage. " However," resolved 
the candid schemer, " I will see this Miss Aboyne before 
I make up my mind." And the brief test of a few mi- 
nutes' intercourse with the unsuspecting Millicent, 
sufficed to settle her ladyship's plan of operations. She 
felt, almost at the first introduction, that Miss Aboyne 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 343 

would not be patronised — so set herself to work, with a 
clear conscience, on the other experiment. 

" What a sweet cottage you live in, Miss Aboyne!" 
observed Lady Octavia, after a little desultory conversa- 
tion, during which she had been taking- a critical survey 
through her glass of the little parlour and all within it. 
" What a sweet cottage !" she exclaimed, rising to com- 
plete her examination — " So neat ! and so small and 
pretty ! Do you know, Mr Vernon," turning to Horace, 
" I quite adore it— it puts me so in mind of dear Falk- 
land ; — it's so like our poultry-woman's cottage in the 
park !" Vernon coloured and fidgeted ; but Millicent 
said, smilingly, that she was indeed partial to her little 
home, and gratified that its unpretending prettiness had 
excited a pleasing association in Lady Octavia's mind. 
" But do you really live here all alone, with only that 
old woman ?" enquired her ladyship, with a sweet expres- 
sion of condoling interest, just sufficing to make it doubt- 
ful whether her impertinence were intentional, or art- 
lessly indiscreet. " How very odd I — that is, I mean, 
how very delightful ! — and I dare say you have always 
something to do — some useful work or other so superior 
to fashionable, trifling occupations ! Do, pray, go on 
with that you were about when we came in, my dear Miss 
Aboyne. I would not interrupt you for the world — and 
it would really amuse me ; do go on — it's delightful to 
see people so clever and notable. I should like to learn ;" 
and running to the table, Lady Octavia drew a chair close 
to it, and set herself to as grave and curious an inspection 
of the coarse manufacture Millicent had been employed 
in, as if each towel had been an ancient manuscript, and 
every stitch a hieroglyphic, or a Greek character. " Your 
ladyship will scarcely find any thing in my homely work 
worthy the condescending attention you are pleased to 



344 CHURCHYARDS. — CHAP. XXIV. 

bestow on it," quietly remarked Miss Aboyne, in whose 
character want of penetration was by no means the con- 
comitant of simplicity, and whose sense of the ludicrous 
was keen enough to have excited a laugh at the solemn 
absurdity of her fair visiter's caprice, if good manners had 
not restricted to a smile the outward indication of her 
feelings. 

" Ah ! now I know what this is — I remember all about 
it," triumphantly exclaimed Lady Octavia, looking up 
from the object of her examination, on which, however, 
one rosy palm remained emphatically outspread. " This 
is hackaback, or shackaback, or some such thing — the 
same sort of stuff mamma gives for pinafores to our school 
at Falkland. I wish I was half so clever and industrious 
as you are, Miss Aboyne, but I am afraid Mr Vernon 
could tell you I am a sad trifling creature." 

" Miss Aboyne's general avocations differ less from 
your ladyship's than those she has selected for this morn- 
ing's amusement," said Vernon, with an ill-concealed 
irritability that tingled to his very finger-ends ; and, ner- 
vously starting from his chair, he went towards Milli- 
cent's music-stand, and partly to prove his petulant 
assertion, as well as to withdraw Lady Octavia's attention 
from the hated work-table, he requested her to look over 
some manuscript Italian music which he hurriedly ex- 
tracted from the pile. His request drew forth an excla- 
mation of surprise from her ladyship, as, approaching the 
music-stand, and taking the offered sheet, she cried, 
" Italian ! — you sing Italian, then, Miss Aboyne ? I 
suppose Mr Vernon has been your teacher ?" Millicent 
looked towards Horace with arch meaning in her eyes ; 
but taking the reply to himself, and speaking with gene- 
rous warmth, and a countenance glowing with grateful 
acknowledgment, he said — " No, indeed ! — your ladyship 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 345 

does me too much honour; I am indebted to Miss 
Aboyne, and to one who was equally beloved and re- 
spected by her and by myself, for all my knowledge of 
Italian — for every acquisition I most value — for more 
than I ever can repay." There was a general pause. 
Lady Octavia wished she could have retracted a question 
which had excited feelings of a very different nature from 
those she designed to insinuate, and had drawn from 
Vernon so spirited an avowal of them. But the slight 
inadvertence led, at least, to one satisfactory conclusion. 
Vernon's honourable warmth and affectionate allusion 
to her beloved father, touched the spring of deepest emo- 
tion in Millicent's bosom, and subverted in a moment the 
outwork of calm self-possession, which had maintained 
itself so successfully, and in truth so easily, against the 
oblique aim of Lady Octavia's puny missiles ; and the 
deep flush that now mantled her before-colourless cheek, 
and the tears that swam in her dove-like eyes, were evi- 
dence unquestionable that Miss Aboyne had a heart, and 
one not altogether organized of " impenetrable stuff." 

To do Lady Octavia Falkland justice, however, she 
did not meditate actual murder, on or off the stage, or 
any thing indeed but a little harmless temporary eport 
with the happiness of the two persons so long and so- 
lemnly contracted. She merely designed to assert the 
omnipotence of her own charms, by convincing Miss 
Aboyne that she had it in her power to make Vernon 
faithless to his early vows ; and, with regard to Vernon 
himself, she only intended to give him a clear insight of 
the disadvantages which must attend his union with Miss 
Aboyne, and a despairing glimpse of the superlative feli- 
city in store for the fortunate mortal who should awaken 
an interest in her own fair bosom. With guarded caution, 
also, she charitably inclined to indulge him with an expe- 



346 CHURCHYARDS CHAP. XXIV. 

rimental taste of la belle passion, such as it might be be- 
tween sympathetic souls of a superior order; and then, 
having so far generously enlightened him as to the capa- 
bilities of his own heart, to leave him and his betrothed 
to complete their stupid union in their own dull way, and 
be " as happy as possible ever afterwards." 

Millicent did not again see Vernon till late in the 
morning which succeeded that of Lady Octavia's visit ; 
but she received him then with looks that beamed a wel- 
come even more affectionate than that with which they 
were ever wont to greet him. His warm tribute to her 
dear father's memory, so spontaneously uttered the pre- 
ceding day, in reply to Lady Octavia's uncivil observation, 
had been balm to her heart, and her grateful feelings were 
ready to overflow at his appearance. But he approached 
and greeted her with an unusual degree of coldness and 
constraint, and there was a cloud upon his brow, and an 
abstractedness in his manner, that quickly and effectually 
repressed the expression of a sensibility too tender and 
profound not to be keenly susceptible of the slightest 
repulse. 

For some time few words passed between them. Ver- 
non seated himself beside Millicent at the table where 
she was finishing some pencil sketches, and usefully em- 
ployed himself in cutting up her pencils into shavings, 
and her Indian -rubber into minute fractions. At last — 
" Milly,'' said he, abruptly, " what can induce you to 
waste your time about such abominable work as you were 
employed in when Lady Octavia called yesterday ? — and 
to have it all spread out in your sitting-room, too ! — 
such vile, hideous litter!" 

" My dear Horace !" mildly replied Millicent, looking 
up from her sketch with an expression of surprise, not 
unmingled with a more painful feeling — " my dear Ho- 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 347 

race ! do you forget that, circumstanced as we are, my 
time is much more wasted in such an occupation as this, 
than it was in the homely task you found me engaged in 
yesterday ? You know, Horace," she added, half-smiling, 
as she bent again over her drawing, " that Nora and I 
are very busy now providing for our future household 
comforts ? But I will allow, such work as mine was yes- 
terday, is not ornamental to a sitting-room ; you shall not 
find the little parlour so disgraced again, dear Horace." 

The sweetness of the answer was irresistible ; but 
though it made Vernon heartily ashamed of the weakness 
which laid him open to such paltry annoyance as that he 
had just made cause of complaint to Millicent, it could 
not immediately tranquillize his irritable mood, or charm 
him into forgetfulness of those tormenting thoughts and 
comparisons Lady Octavia had been too successful in ex- 
citing. Yet was he so sensible of their un worthiness, 
that he hated himself for the involuntary and unsuspected 
treason ; and his heart smote him more sharply when, a 
few minutes afterwards, Millicent spoke of Lady Octavia's 
beauty with such unaffected admiration, as testified, had 
such proof been wanting, how incapable was the genuine 
humility and nobleness of her nature of envious self-com- 
parison with the youthful loveliness of another. " I never 
saw such hair as Lady Octavia's ! — such beautiful hair ! " 
she observed, proceeding with her drawing and her 
eulogium. 

But / have, Milly, and much more beautiful," asserted 
Vernon, edging his chair nearer to hers ; and in a twink- 
ling, before her enquiring look had met the tender mean- 
ing in his eyes, he had dexterously removed her close 
mourning-cap, and plucked out the comb that fastened 
up a profusion of the finest hair in the world, black and 
glossy as the raven's wing, which, thus released from 



348 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XXIV. 

confinement, fell in redundant masses over her neck and 
shoulders, waving- downward almost to the ground as she 
sat, and, half shrouding- her face and figure in its cloud- 
like beauty, invested with somewhat of celestial charac- 
ter the touching loveliness of a complexion pure and 
transparent, and almost colourless as alabaster, and eyes 
of the dark violet's own hue, (" the dim brooding violets 
of the dell,") now upraised to Vernon with an expression 
of innocent surprise and not offended feeling. 

" What a sin it is to hide such hair as this, Milly ! * 
continued her lover, lifting aside one of its heavy tresses 
from her now smiling and blushing face, on which he 
gazed with a sudden and almost surprised conviction that 
his own Millicent was a thousand times lovelier than 
Lady Octavia ; and the evidently admiring fondness with 
which his looks were fixed upon her, did not lessen the 
suffusion of her cheek, though it quickly brought tears 
into her modest eyes, as they fell bashfully under their 
long black lashes. There is no such cosmetic as happi- 
ness — no such beautifier as the consciousness of pleasing, 
where we wish to please ; and never was woman's heart 
indifferent to the gratification of being even personally 
pleasing to the object of her affections, whatever some 
superior-minded disagreeables may pretend to the con- 
trary. Of late, some half-defined idea had possessed 
itself (she scarce knew how) of Millicent's humble heart, 
that though she was still dear to Horace, not only for her 
own sake, but for her father's, and the remembrance of" auld 
lang syne," she had no longer any personal attractions 
for him ; and she had felt the contrast between herself 
and Lady Octavia, though, in her simple integrity, draw- 
ing from it no conclusion more painful or uneasy than 
that Horace must feel it also. But that sudden action — 
those few words — and, more than all, that look of his, 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 349 

conveyed blissful assurance that she was still beloved as 
in days gone by — still beheld with eyes as fondly partial. 
Vernon was quite right. His own Millicent was, at that 
moment, a thousand times more beautiful than the youth- 
ful and brilliant Lady Octavia. 

It would extend this little history far beyond its pre- 
scribed limits, to continue a minute detail of those pro- 
gressive circumstances which more immediately influenced 
the happiness and interests of Horace and Millicent during 
the remainder of Dr Hartop and Lady Octavia's sojourn at 
Sea Vale. The leading incidents must suffice to keep 
unbroken the thread of the narration. Miss Aboyne 
failed not (however disinclined) to return Lady Octavia 
Falkland's visit within a few days after that honour had 
been conferred on her; neither did Lady Octavia fail, 
during their tete-a-tete in her luxurious boudoir, to call 
Millicent's attention to sundry objects, affording indubit- 
able proof — in the shape of copied music, verses, and 
sketches for albums, &c, &c, — that the whole of those 
long mornings, during which she saw little, and occasion- 
ally nothing, of Horace, were not devoted to the serious 
duties which she had been fain to persuade herself occu- 
pied at least the greater part of them. Had any lingering 
doubt still clung about her heart, Lady Octavia's consi- 
derate assurance (as the visiter rose to retire) was 
intended to remove it effectually. " I assure you I am 
quite shocked, Miss Aboyne," she said, with the sweetest 
deprecating manner in the world, " at monopolizing so 
much of Mr Vernon's time ; but he is so kind and obli- 
ging ! — and then, you know, those men are such lounging 
creatures of habit ; when he is once comfortably esta- 
blished on that ottoman" pointing to one at the foot of 
her harp, " there's no driving him away, though I often 

tell him" With what arguments her ladyship so 

conscientiously essayed to " drive" Vernon to his duty, 



350 CHURCHYARDS. — CHAP. XXIV. 

Miss Aboyne gave her no time to explain : for even 
Millicent's gentle spirit was moved by the obvious malice 
and intentional impertinence of the insinuation ; and 
rather haughtily interrupted Lady Octavia with an assur- 
ance, that she arrogated to herself no right whatever over 
Mr Vernon's disposal of his time, which must be well 
employed in her ladyship's service, she made her farewell 
curtsy, and returned to her own solitary home. Lady 
Octavia's eye followed her to the door, with an expres- 
sion that said, " So — 'let the stricken deer go weep ;'" 
and that shrewd meaning implied something very near 
the truth. The arrow had struck home. 

From that morning, Miss Aboyne considered herself 
absolved from the duty of returning any other of Lady 
Octavia's visits — who, on her part, becoming sensible 
that they did not co-operate as she had expected, with 
her amiable purpose, soon discontinued them altogether. 
But tbe worthy doctor, desirous of testifying, in the most 
flattering manner, his gracious approbation of Vernon's 
choice, made a magnanimous effort to honour the object 
of it, by paying his personal respects to her at her own 
dwelling, it is more than probable, with the benevolent 
intention of bestowing on her a few of those valuable hints 
on domestic economy, and the rearing up of a large family, 
with which, at all convenient seasons, he was wont to 
favour his fortunate and grateful curate. But adverse 
circumstances diverted from Millicent the good fortune 
intended for her, the anticipation of which (for Horace 
had prepared her for the visit) had in truth grievously dis- 
quieted her. Carefully enveloped in a warm roquelaure, 
(for though the noonday sun was scorching, the morn- 
ing had been showery,) escorted by Mr Vernon on one 
side, and his own valet, with a parapluie, on the other, 
the doctor (having previously fortified himself with a 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 351 

basin of vermicelli soup) was wheeled in his Bath chair 
through the village of Sea Vale to Miss Aboyne's cot- 
tage — or, more properly speaking, to the garden gate 
leading to the little dwelling, for there his further pro- 
gress was arrested by an unforeseen and insurmountable 
obstacle. The humble gateway was not wide enough, 
by at least a foot, to admit the doctor's equipage ; (it 
would scarcely have afforded ingress to his own portly 
person ;) and the little gravel walk still flooded by recent 
showers, was impassable to the rheumatic gouty feet that 
trode "delicately" even on Brussels carpets. Moreover, 
on casting his eyes despairingly towards the cottage door, 
at which stood Miss Aboyne, (who, on perceiving the 
dilemma of her honourable and reverend visiter, had 
come forward thus courteously,) he conceived a well- 
founded suspicion, that even arrived at that inner portal, 
he should fail in effecting an entrance ; wherefore like a 
true philosopher, accommodating himself to circumstan- 
ces, he gave two or three prelusive hems, with a view of 
complimenting the future bride, (even from that incon- 
venient distance,) with the speech he had conned in readi- 
ness. Already, to Vernon's horror and Millicent's dis- 
may, he had begun, " My dear Madam ! it is with infi- 
nite satisfaction that I do myself the honour " when 

a heavy cloud, which, unobserved by the pre-occupied 
divine, had been gathering over head, began to discharge 
its liquid stores so suddenly, that the faithful valet, who 
waited not his master's commands to face about, gave the 
necessary word to the officiating footman ; and the Bath 
chair, with its reverend contents, under shelter of the 
parapluie, was safely wheeled into the rectory hall, be- 
fore Millicent had well recovered her alarm in the unin- 
vaded sanctuary of her little parlour. 



352 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XXV. 



CHAPTER XXV. 

Two months and more than half a third had passed 
away, since that May morning- (almost the latest of the 
month), a few days prior to the strangers' arrival at the 
rectory, when Vernon had won from Millicent her unre- 
luctant promise to be indissolubly united with him that 
day three months. What changes had taken place since 
then — not in the fortunes and apparent prospects of the 
affianced pair, but in their feelings, habits, and relative 
circumstances ! Vernon had gradually absented himself 
more and more from the cottage ; for some time excusing 
himself to Millicent, and to his own heart, on various 
pretences, which, however, he felt would not bear the 
test of investigation. By little and little he discontinued 
even those poor unsatisfactory apologies — and Millicent 
was best content that it should be so ; for even her blind- 
ness (the wilful blindness of affection) was dispelled at 
last, and she felt within herself, and knew to a certainty 
in her own heart, that she should never be the wife of 
Horace Vernon. Yet did she not, for one single mo- 
ment, suspect the sincerity of his intentions ; nor doubt 
that, when the illusion was dispersed (she knew it to be 
an illusion) which now warped him from his better self, 
he would return to himself and to her, with bitter self- 
upbraiding, and passionate avowals of his own culpable 
weakness, and honourable anxiety to fulfil his engage- 
ments with her. Nay, she doubted not that she was still 
dear to him — she scarcely doubted that the best affections 
of his heart were still hers, however appearances might 
have led to a different conclusion — but she more than 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 353 

doubted whether Horace Vernon and Millicent Aboyne 
could ever be again as they had been to each other, 
therefore she felt in her heart that it was better they 
should not be united. Yet, for all this, there was no 
change in her manner to Vernon — scarcely any percep- 
tible change — only, perhaps, in lieu of the sweet, familiar 
cheerfulness with which she had been wont to carry her- 
self towards him, there was a shade of deeper seriousness, 
of more affecting tenderness, in her deportment, such as 
might have betokened, to a curious eye and a keen ob- 
server, something of those feelings with which the heart 
of one bound in secret on some far journey, may be sup- 
posed, on the eve of departure, to yearn towards a beloved 
friend, still unsuspicious of the approaching separation. 

Millicent's generous confidence in Vernon's honour 
(in his honourable intentions at least) was not misplaced. 
Never for a moment had he harboured a thought of 
violating his engagements with her ; and his heart, as 
she had been fain to believe, still turned to her as towards 
its real home at every lucid interval (the term is not in- 
appropriate) of his spell-bound infatuation ; and on more 
than one late occasion, when some accidental circum- 
stance, or thought suggested by his good angel, had 
aroused his slumbering conscience and better feelings, he 
had almost deceived the poor Millicent into reviving 
hope and trust by an overflowing tenderness of manner 
more apparently impassioned than in the early days of 
their youthful attachment. In some such mood of mind 
he took his way towards the cottage about the period 
last mentioned, a fortnight before the first of September, 
the day he and Millicent bad long anticipated as that 
which was to unite them indissolubly. For some time 
past, however, it had been mutually understood, rather 
than arranged, between them, that their marriage should 

z 



354 CHURCHYARDS. — CHAP. XXV. 

not take place till after the departure of the strangers, 
whose stay at the rectory was not likely to be prolonged 
beyond the first week in September. That period now 
drew near — and Vernon remembered that it did, with a 
strange mixture of discordant feelings. He felt like one 
who has been long living, as in a dream, under the influ- 
ence of some strange illusion, which was about to break 
away and leave him to the sober realities of his appointed 
lot. That morning, one of those trivial occurrences 
which often lead to important results in human affairs, 
tended very materially to hasten the dispersion of his 
airy visions. He had been present — for the time for- 
gotten — when the letter-bag was brought in to Doctor 
Hartop, who delivered out from its contents one from 
Falkland Park to Lady Octavia ; it was from one of her 
sisters, and the matter so interesting, so redolent of pre- 
sent pleasures, and fetes in preparation, of noble and 
fashionable guests arrived and expected, (fashionable men 
more especially, some of whom were alluded to in slang 
terms of familiarity, sanctioned by the modern maniere 
d'etre of fog-^-bred rather than wd7-bred young ladies,) 
that the fair reader for once gave way to the fulness of 
her heart, (seldom was her ladyship guilty of such vulgar 
unreserve,) and poured out its feelings into the some- 
what unsympathizing ear of her reverend uncle, reading 
to him, as she proceeded with her letter, detached por- 
tions of Lady Jane's tantalizing communications, which 
so stimulated her impatient longings, that she ended with, 
" And now you are so well, dear uncle, why need we 
stay a minute longer at this horrid place ? I could not 
survive another month of it." 

What might have been the doctor's reply to this very 
energetic appeal was known only to the fair appellant ; 
for Vernon, taking advantage of the open door, and being 



GRAVE OE THE BROKEN HEART. 355 

entirely overlooked, had slipped quietly away ; and with 
Lady Octavia's words still tingling in his ears, was in 
two minutes on his way to the cottage, and to Millicent. 
In a strange tumult of feeling he bent his steps thither — 
of surprize and mortification, and bitter self-humiliation, 
and reproach ; other thoughts by degrees stole in, like 
oil upon the troubled waves — thoughts still composed of 
mingled elements, painful and humbling, yet healing 
withal — of Millicent and all she had been to him — faith- 
ful, patient, and uncomplaining, where there had 
been so great cause to excite an accusing spirit — 
nobly unsuspicious of wrong — incapable of envy — inac- 
cessible to mean jealousy, though not insensible — Oh no : 
he felt she was not ! — of neglect, which to look back 
upon, wrung him to the soul ; and still, still, ill as he 
deserved it of her, his own — his loving Millicent — his 
better angel — his future wife — and well should the devo- 
tion of all his life to come strive to compensate for his 
temporary dereliction ! Then came across him a shud- 
dering recollection of the increased languor and feeble- 
ness, which, on two or three late occasions, he had observed 
and spoken of to herself; but she had made light of his 
question, and he had not dared to have recourse to Nora. 
Nora and he had, indeed, by tacit consent, for some time 
avoided speaking to each other ; and if they chanced to 
encounter, Vernon had hurried past, without raising his 
eyes to a face where he would have been sure to read 
searching accusation. 

All these thoughts were busy in his heart as he pur- 
sued his way to the cottage, and — for they had melted 
him to a tenderness of which he wished to subdue the 
outward indication — by the longest road — that which ran 
along the back of the village street and the cottage gar- 
den — the very lane where, close by the honeysuckle 



356 CHURCHYARDS. — CHAP. XXV. 

arbour, in that very garden he had been arrested the first 
evening- of his arrival at Sea Vale, by the sweet sounds of 
Millicent's voice, mingled with the manly tones of her 
father's. And there again Vernon's heart smote him ; 
his parting promise to his departing friend ! — how had it 
been fulfilled ? " But it is not too late, thank God !" he 
exclaimed aloud ; and starting onward, he quickened his 
step towards the orphan's dwelling, as if to hasten the 
ratification of his vows, and take her to his heart then 
and for ever. But, at the turning of the green lane, he 
was overtaken by his old medical friend Mr Henderson, 
who, without slackening the pace of his ambling pony, 
merely said in passing — " Good-morrow, Mr Vernon ! 
You are on your way to the cottage, I see ; you will find 
Miss Aboyne better to-day." 

Better ! has Miss Aboyne been ill ? Pray, sir ! 
Mr Henderson !" — and Vernon starting forward, caught 
the pony's bridle-rein in the eagerness of his alarm. 

The good apothecary looked at him with grave surprise, 
as he answered, with some severity of tone, " Is it pos- 
sible you can be ignorant of the very precarious state of 
Miss Aboyne's health, Mr Vernon ? But seeing her, as of 
course you do, daily, you may not have been struck with 
the great personal change which has been for some time 
perceptible to me." Alas ! many days had passed of late 
during which Vernon had found no leisure hour for Mil- 
licent, and this was now the third day since he had seen 
her. How the fact, as if he were then first aware of it, 
struck home to his conscience ! — and with what miser- 
able apprehension he questioned and cross-questioned the 
apothecary ! and drew from him an explicit avowal, that 
although he did not consider Miss Aboyne's case by any 
means hopeless, it was so critical that her life hung as it 
were by a single thread, of which the slightest agitation^ 



GRAVE OP THE BROKEN HEART. 357 

the most trifling imprudence, or any untoward circum„ 
stance, might dissever the frail tenure. " And to be free 
with you, Mr Vernon," the old man continued, laying- his 
hand on Vernon's shoulder, as he spoke with glistening 
eyes and a more unsteady voice — for he had known Mil- 
licent from her childhood, and felt for her an almost pa- 
ternal interest, which had not been diminished by certain 
lately-held conferences with the indignant Nora, whose 
tale, however exaggerated, tallied but too well with his 
own preconceived suspicions — " to be free with you, I 
will add, that I fear, I greatly fear Miss Aboyne's present 
malady proceeds as much from moral as physical causes? 
and that you will do well to shield her, with the most 
watchful tenderness, from every disquietude it may be in 
your power to avert. That gentle spirit of hers, and that 
tender frame, were not made to ' bide all blasts,' Mr Ver- 
non. Take care of her ; she is well worth keeping ; " and 
so saying, the old man extricated the rein from Vernon's 
hold, by quickly spurring on his ponv> and was soon be- 
yond the reach of further questioning, leaving the ques- 
tioner still rooted to the spot, with food enough for bitter 
reflection to keep him there — how long he knew not — 
before he recovered himself sufficiently to enter the 
cottage. 

The porch door stood open, as did that of the little 
parlour ; but the room was empty. Millicent had been 
recently there, however ; for her handkerchief lay on the 
table beside a portfolio and some loose sheets of music. 
Throwing himself into the chair she had occupied, Ver- 
non sat for some moments, his eyes fixed with uncon- 
scious gaze on the objects before him, till, half rousing 
himself from that abstraction, he began listlessly to turn 
them over, and at last his attention was arrested by a 
half- torn sheet that lay apart, with Millicent's handker- 



358 



CHURCHYARDS. — CHAP. XXV. 



chief. The paper was wet. More than one drop — from 
what source he too well divined — had recently fallen on 
the words of a song- which he well remembered having 
formerly given to Millicent, with a laughing injunction to 
make herself perfect in the old ditty against her day 
should come. The words ran thus — a quaint " auld- 
warld" conceit. 

" Unhappy lady ! lay aside 

Thy myrtle crown, thy rohes of pride ; 

A cypress stole Dents thee now, 

A willow garland for thy hrow. 

For thou art changed, and changed is he 
Who pledged thee love's first fealty ; 
A lover's pledge ! a lover's vow ! 
And where is he ? and what art thou ? 

At younger beauty's feet, with sighs 
And silken oaths, thy false love lies : 
A thing forsaken — that thou art, 
With faded form, and broken heart. 

And now, poor heart ! be wise, and crave 
Of earth no guerdon but a grave — 
And hark ! ' ding ! dong ! ' that timely bell 
( Their wedding peal) shall ring thy knell, 

And lay thee by the church-path side, 
When forth he leads his bonny bride ; 
And then, perhaps, he'll cry ' Adieu, 
My fond first love ! — so passing true !' " 

Other drops had mingled with those yet glistening on 
the lines of that old song before Vernon (still holding the 
paper) let fall his arms upon the table, and bowing down 
his head, concealed his face within them. He had con- 
tinued thus for some time, and, so deep was his abstrac- 
tion, that he was perfectly unconscious of an approaching 
footstep, or that he was no longer alone, till a soft hand 
touched his, and looking up, he met the dewy eyes of his 
wronged Millicent fixed upon him with an expression of 
angelic pity. That look set wide at once the flood-gates 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 359 

of his before almost uncontrollable emotion, and starring- 
up, he caught her to his bosom with a passionate sudden- 
ness, that, accompanied by half-intelligible words of love 
and self-reproach, almost overpowered her gentle and timid 
spirit. But soon recovering from the momentary agita- 
tion, she mildly soothed him to composure ; and said, 
half smiling, as she softly drew the old song from his un- 
conscious hand — " Dear Horace ! I never doubted your 

heart — I never feared desertion." " Bless you for 

that ! Millicent, my beloved ! my only love ! — but can 

you — can you forgive ?" " That you have sometimes 

forgotten me of late, Horace ?" " No, not forgotten 

— not forgotten, as Heaven shall judge me, Millicent ! — 
but — I have been bewildered — infatuated — mad — I know 
not what ; and yet my heart was here ; nay, nay, look 
not incredulous, Milly !— here — and here only, as I hope 
for — and did you not say you never doubted that ? — Re- 
peat it, my beloved ! — tell me again you never doubted 

me, my generous noble-minded love !" " I never 

doubted your affection for me, Horace I" repeated Milli- 
cent, with tender seriousness ; — " but now, my dear 
friend ! sit down beside me, and let us both be calm and 
talk together quietly and unreservedly, as it befits friends 

to" " Friends ! no more than friends, Milly ? is it 

come to that?" vehemently exclaimed Horace, with a 

reproachful look. " And what name more sacred, 

more endearing ?" she rejoined, in tones less faltering 
than before — " Friends here, and hereafter, and for ever, 
in that better place where, sooner or later whatever is re- 
served for us here, I trust we shall meet again, and be as 

the angels in heaven " " And here — here, Millicent ! 

are we to be no more than friends ? — Have you forgotten, 
that within two little weeks you would have been my 



360 CHURCHYARDS CHAP. XXV. 

wife, if those fatal strangers ! — but they will be gone be- 
fore three weeks are over, and then " — — " And then, 
dear Horace! it will be time enough to talk of — of" — 
our marriage day, she would have added, but her voice 
suddenly failed, and with a quivering lip she turned her 
face away from him, till the momentary weakness was 
overcome. 

It was soon mastered ; and then, once more raising to 
his her not unmoistened eyes, she continued, " I have 
been wishing, earnestly wishing, for such an opportunity 
— such an opening as this, dear Horace ! — to pour out 
my whole heart to you — to reconcile you to your own, 
in case of an event, for which, I fear, I think, you may 
be entirely unprepared, and which I know you would feel 
too painfully, if now, while we have time, we did not ex- 
change mutual confidence and forgiveness for any wrongs 
fancied or " 

But she was passionately interrupted — 

" Now ! — while we have time ! — an event for which I 
am unprepared ! — Millicent ! Millicent ! what mean you ? 
— But I deserve this torture 1" — and grasping both her 
hands in his with convulsive violence, he gazed in her 
face with such a look of fearful enquiry, as wellnigh un- 
nerved the poor Millicent, and rendered her incapable of 
reply. 

But, making a strong effort for composure, she spoke 
again — at first only a few soothing and affectionate words 
to still the agitation that excited her tenderest compas- 
sion ; and then, impressed with the seriousness and so- 
lemnity of the task she had imposed upon herself, she 
went on, with quiet firmness, to tell him of what had 
been so long upon her heart, though till that moment, 
she had not found courage to impart it to him — time or op- 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 361 

poHunity, she might have said — but that would have 
sounded accusingly, and Millicent lived only to bless and 
to console. 

" My dear Horace," she continued, iC hear me pa- 
tiently — hear me calmly — for my sake do so. For some 
time past I have felt a conviction that I should not live 
to be your wife ; — nay, nay, start not so fearfully at these 
words — look not so shocked, so self- accusing, Horace ! — 
But for you — but for your care and kindness, I should 
long ago have followed my dear father. But you kept me 
here ; and I thought that it was God's will that I should 
live, and become the companion of your life. That 
thought was very sweet to me, dear Horace ! — too sweet, 
perhaps, for it made life too dear to me. But since— of 
late, as I have told you, I have had reason to believe 
that such was not God's pleasure— Nay, let me — let me 
speak on now, Horace ! now that I am strengthened for 
the trial ! — and do not, do not think, dearest ! — for I in- 
terpret that look — that he has stricken me by the hand 
I loved. I was not made for duration, Horace ! — You 
know my mother died early of consumption — I was not 
well before my father's death ; and that great shock ! — i 
so sudden — and " 

" And / have done the rest !— I, wretch that I am! 
— Tell me so, Milly ! — tell me so at once, rather than 
stab me with such mockery of comfort ;" and, no longer 
able to restrain himself, even for her sake, he started from 
her side, and paced the room in agitation, that she wisely 
suffered to subside before she attempted to resume her 
affecting subject. " But it is not too late, Millicent ! — 
angel ! — thou wilt yet be spared, that I may repay with 
life-long tenderness thy matchless excellence ;" and then, 
melted to softer feelings, he flung himself beside her, 
and, clasping her to him, gave way to a passion of 
womanish tears. 



362 CHURCHYARDS CHAP. XXV. 

When both had in some measure recovered composure, 
Vernon was the first to speak again, though in an agi- 
tated whisper : — " Tell me, my beloved ! Oh, tell me, 
you will try to live for my sake ! — I know, I see how 
blind I have been — how madly blind to your increased 
indisposition. Fool ! idiot ! that I was ! I heard of it, 
for the first time, this morning, from Mr Henderson ; 
but he told me — he said — indeed, indeed, Milly ! our 
good friend thinks, that, with care and watchfulness, all 
will go well again. And such care ! — such watchfulness 
as I shall take now !—Oh God! Oh God!" 

And now their tears mingled ; for Millicent's rolled 
fast down her pale cheeks, and it was many minutes 
before she again found utterance, and that her secret 
prayer for strength was answered, and she was able to 
speak to him words of peace and comfort. 

" I know — I know," she faltered out at last, u that I 
may yet recover, if such be God's pleasure, my Horace ! 
for in His hands are life and death. But, my beloved ! 
if you would endeavour to reconcile yourself to a contrary 
event, I should be well content to go, for methinks the 
bitterness of death is past ; and — do not call it unkind, 
Horace ! — I doubt whether I could ever again, under any 
circumstances, be so happy in this world as I have been. 
I feel as if the capabilities of earthly happiness and use- 
fulness were dead within me — as if I had already left my 
youth and prime of days at an immeasurable distance ; 
and such a companion would ill suit you, Horace ! would 
ill assort with your buoyant spirit, and unsubdued ener- 
gies. But God's will be done ! He will order all as is 
best for us ; and if I live, and you continue to wish I 

should become your wife " 

" If I continue to wish it !— Oh, Millicent ! " 
" Then, then, dear Horace ! — I would only say — -May 
God bless our union ! — but if it is not to be, I do not 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 363 

tell you to remember me ; I know you will do that ; but 
I would bid you, for my sake, torture not your own heart 
with self-upbraiding*. Assign all — the ordering of all — as 
indeed is only fitting, to the will of Providence ; — and — 
and if my poor Nora should be unjust or unreasonable in 
her grief, bear with her, dear Horace ; and be kind to her 
still, for my sake. This little dwelling ! — I have taken 
some order about it, and her. The long-expected living 
will be yours at last ; — and then I have so arranged it — 
you will not disapprove it, Horace ? — that this cottage 
may be let or sold, and so furnish a provision for my 
faithful Nora. Forgive me, that I pain you thus, dear 
friend I — and yet, a few words more. Oh ! my dear 
Horace ! be watchful of yourself. We have all much 
need to pray against the deceitfulness of our own hearts. 
The world and its ways would cheat you, Horace ! for I 
know your heart. Oh ! I have longed thus to pour out 
the fulness of mine — my whole spirit, if it might be — in 
one appeal to yours :" — And, elevated by the solemnity 
of that appeal, and by the fervour of her enthusiasm, 
Millicent's voice became full and firm, though its tones 
were deep as if sent up from the bosom's inmost sanctuary, 
and her countenance was irradiated by more than earthly 
beauty, as, clasping her pale thin hands together, she 
looked up in Vernon's face, and slowly articulated, 
" Above all, my father's friend ! mine own dear friend ! 
so run the race that is yet before you, that, though mine 
is first finished, we may meet at last in the land where 
there shall be no more separation." The awful pathos 
of that affecting prayer, though it thrilled through the 
heart of Vernon, subdued his impatient spirit and agitated 
nerves to solemn stillness. He attempted no audible 
answer — words would have been powerless to express his 
feelings ; but Millicent felt and understood all the assur- 



364 CHURCHYARDS. — CHAP. XXV. 

ance she desired to receive, in the tears that moistened 
her clasped hands, as, taking them between his, he bent 
his face upon them in the long and profound silence that 
succeeded to his violent emotion. 

Horace Vernon laid his head that night upon the pil- 
low by many degrees " a sadder and a wiser man" than 
he had arisen from it in the morning. But sleep came 
not to his eyelids, nor rest to his spirit, till utter exhaus- 
tion procured him, towards morning, a short interval of 
troubled slumber. 

Lady Octavia was not long in perceiving the decline, 
or rather cessation of her influence over Vernon. But 
attributing his defection to resentment at the unguarded 
sentence which had escaped her in his presence on the 
perusal of Lady Jane's letter, she only read in it the indi- 
cation of a more profound passion than she had yet felt 
certain of having inspired him with. But after a few 
days of condescending sweetness, fruitlessly expended in 
manoeuvres to lure back the startled quarry, she began to 
suspect that, whatever was the cause of Vernon's brusque 
retreat from her boudoir, and of his subsequent refroi - 
dissement, he was now detained from her by a return to 
his first allegiance, of which her ladyship had by no 
means calculated the possibility, while the light of her 
attractions still blazed in competition with the pale star 
of Millicent. 

Piqued at this discovery, Lady Octavia's heart was 
forthwith vehemently set on what would otherwise (in 
the near prospect of departure from Sea Vale) have been 
a matter of comparative indifference to her — the recovery 
of her former ascendency ; and, nothing daunted by first 
failures, she worked at her purpose with all the energies 
of those great co-operating powers — woman's will and 
woman's wit, supported by woman's perseverance. But 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 365 

even those combined forces had wellnigh experienced sig- 
nal defeat, so entirely had Vernon's revived affection and 
reawakened fears for Millicent, and his bitterly compunc- 
tious feelings, engrossed every faculty of his soul since 
that notable morning when the trifling incident of Lady 
Octavia's momentary incaution had been so influential in 
arousing him from his long illusion. Influential as it 
had been, however, in the first instance, by sending him 
forth in that mood of mortified and bitter feeling, which, 
rather than any worthier cause, had impelled his first 
hasty steps towards the long-deserted cottage, the better 
thoughts that, in his way thither, had gradually super- 
seded his previous irritation — his short but startling 
conference with the good apothecary — and last, and 
above all, that affecting interview with Millicent, had so 
effaced all recollection of the paltry annoyance which had 
originally disturbed him, that it was first called to his re- 
collection by the almost deprecating tenderness of Lady 
Octavia's voice and looks, when she found an opportunity 
of addressing him unobserved ; and that was not very 
speedily obtained, for, except at the dinner hour, and 
some short portion of the after evening conceded to Dr 
Hartop's claims, Horace scarcely absented himself from 
the cottage for many days, after that which had so effec- 
tually aroused him from his long and culpable infatuation. 
Before the little casement of Millicent's chamber was un- 
closed, he was looking up towards it as he paced the walk 
beneath with nervous impatience ; and even his conscience- 
struck reluctance to confront Nora, was overcome by his 
anxiety to obtain from her the first and most exact report 
of her gentle mistress. A painful surprise awaited Ver- 
non the first morning he was thus early at the cottage. 
Long after the little casement above had been partly 
.opened and he had seen Nora pass and repass before it, 



366 CHURCHYARDS. — CHAP. XXV. 

as if preparing- to assist Millicent at her toilet, he had 
awaited for some time in the garden — in the dear old 
arbour, and lastly, in the sitting-room, in expectation of 
Miss Aboyne coming- down to breakfast. But finding at 
length that there were not even any symptoms of prepa- 
rations for the morning meal, he was driven to enquire 
the reason of such unusual delay, and then learned, with 
a pang that wrung him to the heart's core, (for Nora 
spared not to speak home,) that, for some time past, 
Millicent had been too much enfeebled to rise at her ac- 
customed hour, and now habitually took her breakfast in 
bed. The emotion with which Vernon listened to this 
startling corroboration of his fears, still trembled in the 
tone of his voice as he hurriedly remarked — " Why, 
Nora ! surely it was not so long- ago, that when I break- 
fasted here last " 

" Oh, no ! Mr Horace ; not so long, to be sure," in- 
terrupted the faithful servant, with a look that spoke, 
and was meant to speak, keenest reproach ; " not more 
than a fortnight maybe, or perhaps three weeks — no 
time at all — only people may be dead and buried, and 
forgotten too, you know, Mr Horace, in less than that. 
The last time you were to have breakfasted here, you 
were so thoughtful as to tell Miss Aboyne over night 
that you would come next morning ; so the dear child 
would rise and make me dress her to be ready for you — 
she was too ill then to dress herself, poor heart ! — though 
I told her it was ill spending her precious life upon one 
that little deserved it of her." — " Little, indeed !" groaned 
Horace, as he turned abruptly from Nora and the cottage, 
to breakfast where and with what appetite he might. 

But Horace Vernon's versatile feelings and unstable 
nature — characteristics often leading to results as fatal as 
those consequent on the indulgence of violent and evil 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 367 

passions, were as easily elated as depressed — and, in truth, 
his mind was not so constituted as to be long- capable of 
enduring or retaining a deeply painful impression. By 
degrees he deluded himself into the belief that he had 
been too seriously alarmed, though not too soon awa- 
kened. And indeed his now tenderly unremitting watch- 
fulness of the drooping Millicent, was soon rewarded by 
such a reviving brightness of spirit in her, as in a manner 
reflected itself outwardly on the fair and fragile frame 
which at all times sympathized but too faithfully with 
the fine essence it enshrined. It is true, Millicent her- 
self replied only by a grateful smile, or an evasive word 
— not always uttered with a steady voice — to Vernon's 
fond entreaties that she would acknowledge herself to be 
regaining strength — that she would bless him with some 
assurance that might confirm his sanguine hopes. But 
Mr Henderson's manner and replies were more decidedly 
encouraging. Even Nora began to look less coldly, and 
by degrees more cheerfully, when he encountered her in 
his frequent visits ; and at last, one evening- as he was 
leaving the cottage, she not only vouchsafed to resume 
her old office of opening the garden gate for him, but 
said, in a half cordial tone, as he was passing — " Good- 
night, Mr Horace ! keep a good heart, and all may end 
well yet." 

" Bless you ! thank you ! thank you ! dear, dear, sweet 
lovely Nora!" was Vernon's rapturous exclamation, as 
dashing back the closing gate, so as almost to upset his 
old friend, he hugged her round the neck with such 
schoolboy vehemence of delight, as left her wellnigh 
breathless and half indignant, though not quite unaccus- 
tomed in former days to such ebullitions of his volatile 
spirits. 

Her rebuke (if she uttered one) was, however, quite lost 



368 CHURCHYARDS CHAP. XXV. 

on the offender. Before she had time to set her cap 
straight, or smooth down her ruffled neck-kerchief, he 
was already half way to the rectory, which he re-enter- 
ed that night in a frame of mind so overflowing- with 
happiness, security, self-reconcilement, and universal 
benevolence, as reflected its own hues on all surrounding 
objects, animate and inanimate. Dr Hartop was agreeable 
— Lady Octavia enchanting — all but her charms and 
obligingness forgotten or forgiven — (what was any 
woman's heart to him but Millicent's ?) — her harp and 
voice in exquisite tone— his own vocal powers and his 
flute in the happiest unison with both ; Dr Hartop gradu- 
ally sank to balmy slumbers; music was discontinued in 
consideration for his repose ; conversation succeeded — 
" the feast of reason and the flow of soul" — of course 
restricted, on the doctor's account, to the low key and 
subdued tones that sound so sweetly confidential : and 
when, on his awakening, bed-candles were lighted, and 
Lady Octavia, taking hers from Vernon, and gracefully 
paying her parting salutation to Dr Hartop and himself, 
withdrew to her own apartment, she just turned her head 
on entering it to glance down the passage, at the end of 
which Vernon was still unconsciously holding open the 
drawing-room door, as he gazed after her receding form, 
and softly said to herself, with a quiet inward laugh, a 
curled lip, and an eye of infinite meaning, " Ah, ah ! je 
te rattrappe, fine mouche! Sauve toi si tu pourras." 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 369 



CHAPTER XXVI. 

The rector's departure from Sea Vale was at length 
fixed for the second week of September ; but when the 
final arrangements were made, Lady Octavia found her- 
self condemned to accompany her uncle during his month's 
residence at Exeter, instead of immediately joining the 
gay autumn party at Falkland Court. A short time back, 
such a contre-tems would have severely tried her lady- 
ship's philosophy, but within the last fortnight Vernon's 
premature return to his old colours had piqued her into a 
determination, coute qui coute, to bring him back to hers> 
if but for a week, before she gave him. his final discharge ; 
and a scheme was now shaping itself in her creative 
imagination which promised, not only to effect that pur- 
pose in the most satisfactory manner, but to wile away 
some of the horrors of her stay at Exeter — horrors in- 
finitely greater, in her estimation, than those of rural re- 
tirement ; and she hailed as quite providential certain 
waking visions, which substituted the handsome curate 
and his flute, moonlight music and moonlight walks with 
him in old bay windows and echoing cloisters, for chi- 
meras dire of portly canons and their dignified spouses — 
solemn dinners — silent whist-tables, and all the dull cere- 
monial of an ecclesiastical court circle. 

During the last fortnight of Dr Hartop's stay at the 
rectory, the family party had been augmented by the 
arrival of a brother of Lady Octavia's, the Reverend 
Arthur Falkland, who came down -to Sea Vale for the 
united advantages of shooting and sea-bathing, and Mil- 

2 A 



370 Churchyards. — chap, xxvi. 

licent readily accepted Vernon's apology for stealing* 
from her a few of those hours that he would more will- 
ingly have devoted entirely to her, in order to show due 
attention and courtesy to his rector's guest and nephew. 
No day passed, however, without his visiting the cottage — 
few during which he did not look in more than once or 
twice on its lonely mistress ; and if his visits were each 
time shorter, and his manner more unequal and pre- 
occupied, she assured herself that, circumstanced as he 
then was, nothing could be more natural or excusable* 
" And it will only be for a few days longer, Millv," said 
he. " Thank God ! only three days longer ; for this is 
Saturday, and on Monday they depart — and then, dearest, 
dearest Millicent I we shall be once more all the world to 
each other." Tears came into Vernon's eyes as he utter- 
ed the last words ; and after a short pause, during which 
he had been gazing upon Millicent with troubled yet tender 
earnestness, he vehemently added, " Would to God they 
were already gone ! would to God I had never seen them, 
Milly !" — And his painful agitation distressed the affec- 
tionate heart of Millicent, who endeavoured to soothe him 
with every tender and comforting assurance, best calcu- 
lated to reconcile him to himself, and allay what she 
conceived to be the sudden storm of compunctious 
retrospection. 

That evening, whether in the fond weakness of her 
heart, yearning to give comfort, or that she really began 
to entertain hopes of prolonged life, (still dear — how 
dear to her if to be passed with Vernon !) for the first 
time since her danger had been made known to him, she 
spoke of the future — of an earthly future ; looked at 
him almost believingly when he talked of their union ; 
and did not shake her head, nor smile as she had smiled 
of late, when he talked of it as an event that was now 



CRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 37 1 

assuredly to take place before the close of that autumn 
already entered upon. Once or twice indeed, she seemed 
to shrink, as if from hope ; but it was evident, at least it 
seemed evident to Vernon, that she did not turn from it 
as formerly ; and as with him there was no medium be- 
tween despair and joyful certainty, he hailed her doubtful 
encouragement as a pledge of perfect security, which 
would justify him for having acceded to a plan which he 
had hitherto hesitated from communicating- to Millicent, 
though he had entered the cottage that morning with 
the express purpose. Now, however, there was no 
reasonable cause to deter him from speaking. All was 
so safe — Millicent so well, and in such good spirits ! — so, 
without further deliberation, he said smilingly, but with 
somewhat of a hurried tone, and a forced gaiety of man- 
ner, — 

" Milly ! do you know I must have one long braid of 
that smooth raven hair, (which is so becomingly arranged, 
now you have humoured me by leaving off that dowdy 
cap,) by way of talisman, to bind me to you during four 
— five days — it may be a whole week of separation." 

Millicent started, and the hectic of a moment suffused 
her pale face ; but she only looked her surprise, and 
Vernon went on to explain, rather confusedly, while he 
was profitably busied in unrolling her ball of sewing 
thread, that Dr Hartop had given him such a pressing 
invitation to accompany him and Lady Octavia to Exeter, 
and be their guest during the musical festival which was 
to take place the week ensuing, that he felt it would have 
been not only ungracious, but ungrateful, to decline the 
courteous proposal; — "and so, dearest Millicent," he 
continued, looking up from the handiwork on which his 
eyes had been fixed with intense interest during the first- 
part of his communication, " 1 have promised to go,^-- 



372 CHURCH Y/AKDS CHAP. XXVi. 

that is, with a mental reservation that you continue well 
enough for me to leave you without anxiety for those 
few days, and that you will not feel uncomfortable at my 
doing so." 

While Vernon was speaking, Millicent had time to 
recover from the painful emotion into which she had been 
surprised by his unexpected information ; and inwardly 
rebuking herself for its unreasonable selfishness, she said 
promptly and cheerfully, 

" You did quite right, dear Horace. I am so well that 
I Can spare you safely, and shall enjoy with you, in ima- 
gination, the musical treat that will be to you such a real 
banquet. On Monday, you said — the day after to-mor- 
row — and to stay till ? " 

" Only till the Saturday ensuing — I intend — I believe," 
replied Horace to her look of anxious enquiry. " At 
furthest, the Monday after ; and in that case Falkland, 
who stays on some weeks at Sea Vale, would take my 
duty." 

" But you will not stay away longer — not much 
longer ? " hesitatingly, yet almost imploringly, rejoined 
Millicent, in a lower and less cheerful tone, a sudden 
shade slightly clouding the serenity of her mild counte- 
nance. " I am very nervous still, and may not long 
continue so well as I am now ; and then, if any change 
should take place. Nay, do not look so disturbed, dear 
Horace — I am so well now ! — but do not stay away too 



" I will not go — I will not go, Milly I if it gives you 
one moment's pain, dear girl ! — But how is this, Milly ? 
a minute agone, and you spoke so cheerfully and hope- 
fully. And now — that quivering lip ! — those glistening 
eyes ! — Millicent ! my beloved ! what means such sud- 
den change ? " 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 373 

" Forgive me, dear Horace I I am ashamed of my 
waywardness — of my caprice," she faltered out, conceal- 
ing her face, now bathed in tears, against Vernon's 
shoulder — " But it is the infirmity of my enervating 
malady — the effect of weakness — of unstrung nerves ; and 
sometimes an unbidden thought suddenly crosses and 
subdues me, and I cannot restrain these foolish tears, 
But they always do me good, Horace ; and after the 
shower comes sunshine, you know,'* and she looked up at 
him, as she spoke the last word, with still dewy eyes and 
a faintly brightening smile, that beautifully illustrated 
her simple metaphor. But the humid ray scarcely broke 
out into cloudless sunshine, though she recovered perfect 
serenity, and would not listen for a moment to Vernon's 
reiterated, but rather fainter proposition, of wholly relin- 
quishing his intended excursion. 

" Remember," said he, as they stood together in the 
cottage porch, just before he left her that evening — 
" Remember, Milly, I am to take away with me one of 
those ebon locks. If it is not ready for me to-morrow, 
I shall cut it off myself. I wish I had your picture, 
Milly!" 

" I wish you had, dear Horace," she quickly answered ; 
" I have often wished it lately — I should like you to have 
it ; but there is my father's, that will be yours, Horace ; 
and it is so like me, you know, you will never look upon 
it without thinking of me." 

" Without thinking of you, Milly ? Shall I not have 
yourself, your own dear living self, as well as that pre- 
cious picture we shall so often look upon together ? " 

" But, dearest Horace, if it should be otherwise, if that 
picture only should become yours, place it somewhere 
where you may see it often when you are alone and in 
your quiet hours of serious thought. But do not look 



374 CHURCHYARDS. — CHAP. XXVI. 

so very serious now — I spoke but of an < if,' a passing 
thought. To-morrow I shall send you away cheerfully." 

" If you do not, Milly, here I remain, be sure. A 
word would keep me — only half a word. Speak it, be- 
loved ! I almost wish you would." But she spoke not, 
and, bidding her an affectionate farewell for the night, he 
was turning to depart, but lingered yet a moment to point 
out to her a small white rose-bud, which promised yet to 
blossom in its sheltered corner. " Look, Milly," he 
said, " ' The last rose of summer.' Your favourite rose 
will yield you yet one blossom. Before it is full-blown, 
I will be here to pluck and place it in your bosom. '' 
Words lightly spoken sometimes sink deeply into loving 
hearts, especially under circumstances such as Millicent's, 
where physical causes acted morbidly upon a mental 
system, by nature sensitive, and perhaps not wholly free 
from a taint of superstitious weakness. From that hour 
the rose became her calendar, and she watched its unfold- 
ing leaves, as if their perfect expansion was to be the 
crisis of her fate. 

By what means, or under what pretences Lady Octavia 
had succeeded in obtaining for Vernon an invitation to 
accompany Dr Hartop and herself to Exeter, matters 
little to the reader of this story. The success of her lady- 
ship's manoeuvres has been sufficiently illustrated by the 
preceding conversation. The day that intervened before 
that of his departure being Sunday, Vernon was detained 
from the cottage during a great portion of it by his clerical 
duties. Then his assistance was required at the rectory 
in packing up certain portfolios, albums, and various 
nicknackeries, not to be safely entrusted even to the in- 
valuable Jenkins, so that, although he contrived to look 
in two or three times upon Millicent, each visit was but 
for a few hurried minutes, the" 1 last briefest of all. And 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 375 

well for her that it was so ; for though she had success- 
fully struggled through the day to maintain a semblance 
of cheerful composure, and had indeed partly reasoned 
herself out of what she meekly accounted unreasonable 
disquietude, as evening drew on, the mental excitement 
subsided, her spirits seemed to ebb away with the depart- 
ing daylight, and she felt as if they would hardly hold 
out "to speed the parting friend" with that cheerful 
farewell with which she had promised to dismiss him. 
Vernon also had his reasons for brief leave-taking ; but 
his adieus, though fondly affectionate, were more than 
cheerful, hurried over with a voluble gaiety, and an ex- 
uberance of spirits that seemed hardly natural. " Till 
Saturday, dearest ! " were his parting words ; and before 
Millicent's long-restrained feelings had broken out into 
one choking sob, before the brimming tears had forced 
their way over her aching eyelids, he was out of sight 
and out of hearing, though the garden gate still vibrated 
with the swing which had closed it behind him. And 
the lock of raven hair, which was to be his " talisman," 
which Millicent had not neglected to make ready as he 
had enjoined her, though with womanly coyness (womanly 
feeling rather) she had hesitated to give it unclaimed. — 
He was gone and had forgotten to claim it ! - 

The middle of the third week, from the day of Ver- 
non's farewell to Millicent, found him still at Exeter. 
Shall we tell how the time crept at Sea Vale in his 
absence ? or how it had flown with him in that world 
of novelty to which he found himself transported ? 
or shall we count over, link by link, " the chain 
of untoward circumstances" (so he wrote of them to 
Millicent) which had caused him to prolong his ab- 
sence from her so long beyond the term he had pledged 
himself to at parting ? Alas ! it is but too easy to pic- 



376 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XXVI. 

ture to one's self the feelings of the lonely invalid — the 
first sharp pang of disappointment — the sickness of hope 
deferred — the sinking of the spirit into utter hopelessness. 
And it would be tedious and distasteful to enumerate all 
the frivolous excuses alleged by Vernon for his continu- 
ance at Exeter, excuses which, for a time, however, were 
more indulgently admitted by the generous, unsuspicious 
Millicent, than satisfactory to his heart, and slum- 
bering, though not seared, conscience. Yet he had partly 
succeeded in stilling, though not stunning the inward 
accuser. " Millicent's first letter had been cheerfully 
and cheeringly written. She was undoubtedly well — so 
well, that a few days, more or less — " But it was easier 
to drive away reflection altogether, than, by resorting to 
it, to acquire perfect self-justification — so he fled from 
himself and his own thoughts to the syren, in whose 
charmed presence all but his own captivations were for- 
gotten. 

Lady Octavia's attractions had not, however, achieved, 
unaided, the triumph over Vernon's best resolves — it 
might well be said over his best principles; and still their 
power had extended over his imagination only, leaving 
his heart true to its first affection, if true that preference 
may be called which, when put to the test, will sacrifice 
no selfish gratification, no unworthy vanity to the peace 
and welfare of its ostensible object. Every thing com- 
bined with her ladyship's witchery to complete Vernon's 
mental intoxication. A whirl of dissipation, consequent 
on the provincial gathering for the Musical Festival, of 
which Lady Octavia condescended to be the presiding 
deity, no other high-born or fashionable beauty being at 
hand to dispute her pre-eminence ; the marked favour 
with which he was publicly distinguished by this goddess 
— the admired of all eyes, the envy of many — and the 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 377 

general notice and consideration it obtained for him, 
and the still more dangerous influence of her seductive 
sweetness and varied powers of charming, in those fre- 
quent tete-a-tetes which she had anticipated with so much 
sagacious prescience " in antique bay windows and 
shadowy cloisters ;" the perpetual excitement of music, or 
dancing, of novelty, where all was new to him: — every 
thing conspired, together with Lady Octavia's arts and 
the weak points of Vernon's character, to complete that 
intoxication which was at its height about the time (the 
third week of his stay at Exeter,) when, in pursuance of 
our task as a faithful chronicler, we must resume a more 
circumstantial detail, though still as briefly as may be, of 
his further progress. 

In the miscellaneous assemblage drawn together by the 
music meeting, Lady Octavia's discriminating survey had 
found in the male part of it no individual so qualified to 
do credit to her taste and patronage as the handsome, 
and interesting, and really elegant Vernon ; and so in- 
teresting did he become, in the daily increasing intimacy 
of familiar intercourse ; so rapidly developed under her 
ladyship's fostering encouragement, were his latent ca- 
pabilities for "better things," as she was pleased to 
express herself; and to such advantage did he appear 
among all surrounding competitors, that had the fair Oc- 
tavia been of those with whom 

" Un peu d'amour, un peu de soin 
Mene souvent le coeur bien loin," 

there is no saying how far beyond its original design " le 
roman d'unjour" might have extended. But her lady- 
ship's heart, not composed in the first instance of very 
sensitive atoms, had been laid to harden so effectually in 



378 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XXVI. 

the petrifying- spring of fashionable education, as to have 
become proof to 

"Cupid's best arrow, with the golden head," 

if not shot from the vantage ground of a broad parchment 
field, cabalistically endorsed with the word " settlement ;" 
and having achieved her vowed triumph, by " fooling 
Vernon to the top of his bent," she began to suspect the 
pastime had been sufficiently prolonged, and that if the 
delirium she had worked up to a crisis were not timely 
checked, she might find herself publicly committed, in a 
way that would not only militate against her own serious 
views, but probably come to the knowledge of Dr Hartop, 
and incur his severe displeasure. 

Lady Octavia was far too well-bred to give the cut 
direct to any body, and too " good-hearted " to inflict 
more than unavoidable mortification on a person, for 
whom, as she expressed herself to the confidential Jenkins, 
she should always retain a compassionate interest. But 
while she was meditating how to 

" Whistle him softly down the wind," 

Fate stepped in to her assistance in the shape of an old 
acquaintance, who very unexpectedly made his appear- 
ance at Exeter with a party of friends, with whom he 
was on a shooting excursion. 

Lord George Amersham was one of those persons, 
who, without being very young, very handsome, very 
clever, at all wealthy, or in any way "a marrying man," 
had, by some necromancy, so established his supremacy 
in all matters of taste and ton, that his notice was dis- 
tinction, and his favour fame. No wonder that suffrage 
so important was briguee by all female aspirants for 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 3?9 

fashionable ascendency ; and Lady Octavia had been so 
fortunate as to obtain it on her first coming out. The 
appearance of such a star in the provincial hemisphere, 
to which she was condemned pro tempore, would at all 
times have been hailed by the lovely exile as an especial 
mercy, but " under existing- circumstances," (to use the 
diplomatic phrase,) she esteemed it quite providential, 
as nothing now could be so easy and so natural as the 
transfer of her attention from Vernon to her old acquaint- 
ance. 

The former was soon made sensible of the change, 
though at first more surprised and perplexed at it, than 
aware of the systematic alteration of Lady Octavia's de- 
portment. But his obtuse perceptions were soon to be 
sufficiently enlightened. A subscription ball, which was 
to take place on the second night of Lord George's stay 
at Exeter, was also to be honoured by the presence and 
patronage of Lady Octavia Falkland and her party, in- 
cluding the noble sportsman and his friends — Vernon as 
a matter of course — Dr Hartop as a matter of neces- 
sity — and, as one of convenience, a deaf and purblind old 
lady, the relict of a deceased canon, who made herself 
useful in a twofold capacity — ostensibly as Lady Octavia's 
chaperon, and veritably as an unwearied sitter-out of (she 
could not be called a listener to) Dr Hartop'slong stories, 
and an established member of his select whist set. This 
party had dined at the rectory, and Lord George's rank 
having of course entitled him to conduct Lady Octavia to 
the eating-room, and take his seat beside her, it was 
equally a matter of course, (the other guests being also 
men of pretensions if not of rank,) that the bottom of the 
table and the deaf old lady, who had been duly marshaled 
out by the doctor, should fall to the lot of Vernon, whose 
proximity to the door, however, secured him the office 



380 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XXVI. 

of holding it open for the ladies when they should pass 
to the drawing-room. But just at that moment, Lady 
Octavia, actuated perhaps by some compunctious con- 
sciousness that her attentions had been too entirely en- 
grossed during dinner by her neighhours at the upper 
end of the table, was seized by a fit of such extraordinary 
cordiality towards the canon's deaf relict, that she passed 
her fair arm with affectionate familiarity within that of 
the worthy old lady, and began whispering something in 
the lappets of her cap, which lasted till they reached the 
stair-foot, and the dining-room door had closed behind 
them. Lord George and two of the other gentlemen ac- 
companied D;* Hartop and the ladies to the ball-room, in 
the Doctor and Mrs Buzby's carriages. The third 
walked thither with Vernon, and when they entered the 
Assembly-room, Lady Octavia was already dancing with 
one of Lord George's friends. When her partner, after 
the set was over, had conducted her to a seat, Vernon 
drew near, with the hope (expectation it would have been 
a few nights previous) of engaging her for the next 
quadrille. But she was still engrossed by her partner, 
and the others of Lord George's party, he having 
comfortably established himself on the best half of the 
sofa, of which she occupied a corner, entrenched behind 
two of the gentlemen who were conversing with her, so 
that Vernon could only proffer his request, by speaking 
it across Lord George, so audibly, as to make him colour 
at the sound of his own voice, with a painful conscious- 
ness of awkward embarrassment, which was not dimi- 
nished by perceiving that his words were wasted " on the 
desert air," at least that they had only drawn on him a 
grave stare from Lord George, and the eyes of many 
surrounding loungers, though the Lady Octavia's were 
perversely fixed in an opposite direction, and she appeared 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 381 

perfectly unconscious not only of his address, but of his 
vicinity. Just then a space was cleared for waltzing — 
the magic sounds set twenty pairs of te-totums in rota- 
tory motion, and Lord George, who " never danced," 
languidly, and, with apparent effort, roused himself from 
his recumbent posture, and, to the no small amazement 
of Vernon's unsophisticated mind, without addressing a 
word to Lady Octavia, or further ascertaining her con- 
sent, than by passing one arm round her slender waist as 
she arose from the sofa, whirled her off, seemingly " nothing 
loath" into the giddy circle. Vernon was suddenly sen- 
sible of a vehement longing to breathe the fresh air, and 
contemplate the beautiful moonshine. We cannot exactly 
pronounce how long he indulged in solitary meditation ; 
but when he re-entered the ball-room, the waltz was over 
— an after set of quadrilles just finished, and the dancers 
were crowding about the refreshment tables. 

Vernon mechanically mingled with the throng, and in 
a few minutes found himself very undesignedly posted 
behind Lady Octavia and Lord George, who was supply- 
ing her with ice and sherbet, and finishing some speech 
of " infinite humour," at which her ladyship was laugh- 
ing as heartily as it was admissible that lips polite should 
laugh. " Now really, my lord ! you are too severe," 
murmured those lovely lips between the spoonfuls of ice. 
" You are too hard upon my pastor fido — an excellent 
obliging creature, I assure you — really quite civilized, and 
has been infinitely useful to me in that horrid desert. 
No such * Cymon ' either, as you call him ; and as for 
Iphigenia — the fair Octavia will not confess having cha- 
ritably enacted that character — her delight is to do good 
by stealth, and blush to find it fame." 

" But seriously though — this pastoral pet of yours — 



382 CHURCHYARDS.— CHAP. XXVI; 

this Mr— — by the by, what a vastly appropriate name ! 
—this Mister Verdant — •" 

" How can you be so excessively absurd !" uttered the 
lady, convulsed with inward laughter at his lordship's 
wit — " you know his name's Vernon ; I call him « Le 
Beau Lindor.'" 

"Le Beau Lindor" had heard quite enough. Backing 
with such inconsiderate suddenness, as almost to upset 
good Mrs Buzby and a dignitary of the church, in his 
brusque retreat — he left the ball-room — cleared the stairs 
at a bound — and by a progress almost as rapid, gained Dr 
Hartop's residence, and the sanctuary of his own chamber. 
What were his meditations after he had shut himself 
within it, securing himself by turning the key from pos- 
sible intrusion, we cannot nicely determine, but may fairly 
infer they were not of a very philosophic nature, from 
certain sounds of heavy and irregular footsteps — porten- 
tous thumps and bangs, indicating the violent derange- 
ment of furniture, the opening and shutting of drawers, 
with no gentle and deliberate hand, and the dragging 
backwards and forwards of a portmanteau ; which dis- 
turbance was so audible in the hall below, as to excite 
the wonder and curiosity of the " liveried loungers," one 
of whom at last tapped at the visiter's door, with a civil 
request, to know if Mr Vernon wanted any thing, or had 
rung his bell. " Nothing," was the short and compre- 
hensive reply, in a tone which interdicted further intru- 
sion ; but all became quiet within the chamber, and by 
the time the footman had rejoined his fellows of the 
buttery, its solitary occupant was seated in perfect still- 
ness — a packed portmanteau on the floor beside him — his 
elbows propped on the table before which he sat, and his 
face concealed by his two hands, upon the outspread 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 383 

palms of which rested his hot and throbbing temples. 
" Millicent ! Millicent I" were the first sounds that after 
a spell of profound silence struggled through his scarcely 
unclosed lips, and half-shut teeth. But it seemed as if 
his own utterance of that gentle name stung him to 
agony ; for, starting back from the table, he flung out 
his arm across it with so much violence, as to dash off 
two or three books that had been piled together and now 
came to the floor with a noisy fall, which apparently 
aggravated Vernon's irritable mood, for he spurned the 
volumes with a kick that sent them sprawling in all 
directions, but left on the spot where they had fallen a 
letter which, in the general dispersion, escaped from its 
hiding-place within one of their covers. That letter 
caught Vernon's eye, and in a moment he was fixed, still, 
motionless, almost unbreathing as a statue, gazing on 
that small white square of folded paper, as if a serpent 
lay coiled before him. And there was cause — full cause 
and weighty— --for that shrinking, yet fascinated gaze. 
That letter was from Sea Vale — from Millicent. Five days 
before it had been placed in Vernon's hand, and the seal 
was yet unbroken ! It had been brought to his chamber 
door, just as he had caught up his hat and gloves, to 
attend Lady Octavia, who was waiting for him in the hall, 
on a pic-nic excursion to some picturesque spot in the 
vicinity of Exeter. He held the letter for half a minute 
— his hand was on the seal, and yet he felt at that 
moment that he would rather defer the perusal of its 
contents. An impatient summons came from a silvery 
voice below — Vernon started — gave one look to the 
direction — one kiss to the well-known characters, and 
slipt the unopened letter within the covers of a book that 
lay on the table, to be flown to, to be read in undisturbed 
quietness, the moment of his return. Five days ago 



384 CHURCHYARDS. — CHAP. XXVI. 

that letter had been so deposited. There it had remained 
till the present moment, untouched, unread, unremem- 
bered ! And Vernon — how had he passed that interval? 
What were his feelings, when suddenly before him lay 
that mute accuser ? " Madman that I have been !" he 
groaned aloud, and sinking into a chair, his tears fell fast 
on the unnerved fingers, that could with difficulty break 
open the seal, which had been too long inviolate. Mil- 
licent's letter, which enclosed another, ran thus : — 

"My dear Horace, 
"You desired me to open any letters which might 
arrive for you while you were absent. I have done so 
by the enclosed, which I forward to you immediately ; 
for, as you will see, it is one that concerns you nearly — 
that calls you to take possession of the long-promised 
living. I thank God, my dear Horace, that I have lived 
to congratulate you on this event ; and I pray God to 
make it blessed to you ; and to bless you in your faithful 
service here, and in the reward of it hereafter. But this 
is not my only reason for pressing your return — your im- 
mediate return to Sea Vale, even — (was I ever before so 
selfishly exacting, Horace ?) — even should inclination, 
or any cause short of necessity detain you at Exeter. 
You will soon again be at liberty to return thither, or to 
seek the society of your other friends, wherever they may 
be. There will be time enough for them — for all — but 
not for me, dear Horace. Therefore, for your own sake 
more than mine, come, — come soon, come very soon, or 
(for I know the kindliness of your nature) you will after- 
wards reproach yourself with a bitterness, the sting of 
which I shall not be permitted to extract, nor to soothe 
the only pain I shall ever have caused you, Horace. 
I am not so well — not nearly so well as when you left 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 385 

me : I cannot leave my bed now, or sit up in it for more 
than half an hour at a time ; and even the writing these 
few lines exhausts me, so you see you must come soon — 
very, very soon, if — But I need not urge it — I know you 
will be with me directly — almost, and that I shall have 
time and strength left to thank and bless you, and com- 
fort you, dear Horace; and that we shall yet talk together 
■ — pray together — Oh, yes ! and that I shall receive from 
your hands the pledge of our immortal hope — of our cer- 
tain reunion. M. A." 

An abler, a far abler narrator than I am, might well 
shrink from attempting to describe Vernon's feelings as 
he read this letter, or their first frantic ebullition after he 
had perused it. For some moments all within him was 
anarchy and distraction. Agonies of remorse and terror, 
and images of death crowded upon each other in hurrying 
confusion, like the phantasmagoria of a frightful dream — - 
and his ears rang with an imaginary cry, " Too late ! too 
late !" that withered and benumbed his powers of action, 
while a contrary impulse impelled them to promptest ex- 
ertion. The latter soon obtained the mastery, however, 
and another glance at the date of the letter — that date 
now six days old ! — acted electrically on the mental chaos. 
In a moment its jarring elements were reduced to com- 
parative order, concentrated in one overruling purpose. 
It was but an hour past midnight. Four hours' rapid 
posting would take him to Sea Vale. In less than half 
an hour he was whirling on his road thither, as fast as 
fresh horses could tear over the ground, urged on by the 
relentless lash of a well-bribed driver ; and in spite of 
various detentions at the several stages, while tired post- 
boys were roused from their heavy slumbers, and galled 
cattle dragged from their short rest — (Oh I how inter- 
minable seemed every moment's deify!) — in spite of 

2b 



386 CHURCHYARDS CHAP. XXVI. 

these and other trifling hinderances, he reached the hill- 
top that overlooked Sea Vale, before the stars began to 
" pale their ineffectual fires," in the uncertain dawn of a 
dull, cheerless, October morning. The village below was 
distinguishable only as a black shapeless mass, lying in the 
deep shadows of the surrounding hills. Only one 
twinkling light gleamed at its entrance, from the lamp- 
post of the single inn ; yet Vernon strained his eyes 
through the darkness, on — on — towards the more dis- 
tant dwellings, till he fancied he could descry the well- 
known gable — the tall round chimney — the two shadow- 
ing elms — among the confused and indefinite outline of 
trees and buildings. 

It was but imagination — the rapid portraiture of me- 
mory ; but his heart beat quicker at the fancied sight, 
and leaping from the carriage, he left it to pursue its 
more leisurely way towards the inn yard, and rushing 
down the remainder of the declivity, sprang over a stile 
into a meadow path, which would take him by a short 
cut through a field or two, into the green lane, the back 
way to the cottage. That way was so familiar to him, 
that, to his eye, every object was as recognizable by that 
dim light — that " darkness visible," as it would have been 
at noon-day ; and what emotions — what recollections 
pressed upon him, as he leaped the last gate into the b©w- 
ery lane — as he trod once more its soft greensward, now 
thickly strewn with a rustling carpet of autumnal leaves 
— as he passed the grey spectral-looking stems of the two 
old thorns at the corner of the garden hedge. And as he 
pursued his way along that memorable path, every and 
each one of those inanimate uncertain shapes, stood out 
with ghastly distinctness to his mind's eye, and he gazed 
on them with such intensity of vision, as if he could have 
read in the aspect of those senseless things, some intima- 
tion of the nature of that dread certainty which, never- 
hele^s, as the decisive moment drew near, he shrank 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 387 

from ascertaining. As the cottage really became visible, 
and a patch of its white walls now and then discernible 
through the leafless fence, a cold shuddering ran through 
his whole frame, and he stopped abruptly, as if an unseen 
hand had checked his progress. All was darkness on that 
side the cottage. No light from within streamed through 
either of the small lattices — but only Nora's sleeping- 
room lay that way. Millicent's — the sick-chamber, 
opened to the front. Was it still only the chamber of 
sickness ? Alas ! that miserable hope ! But it was the 
more dreadful doubt that still delayed Vernon's onward 
steps — that seemed to stagnate the very current of his 
blood, so deadly was the weight and sickness that hung 
about his heart. A minute more — -he had only to turn 
the corner of that small dwelling, to cast up one look at 
the well-known window, and suspense would terminate ; 
for surely, he said within himself, a light would beam 
from that chamber if life were there — " if life ! " — and 
then the unhappy man shudderingly repeated — " Six 
days ! — six days ! and she was dying." But the agony of 
that remembrance nerved him to desperate resolve, and 
rushing forward, in another moment he stood facing the 
chamber window. There was light within ! — " then 
life !" — was the rapid overpowering conclusion, and sud- 
denly all strength forsook him — the young and vigorous 
frame felt feeble as infancy, and tears — quiet tears, rolled 
fast down his agitated face, as leaning for support against 
one of the old elm-trees, he continued to gaze earnestly, 
with feelings of unutterable gratitude, on that pale star 
of comfort. The light was very pale and feeble, (true 
emblem, alas ! of his most sanguine hope,) for that of 
the grey dawn began to contend with the waning watch- 
light, and to give distinctness to the near external objects. 
A muslin blind was drawn within the lattice, but through 
its thin texture Vernon could discern the white curtains 



388 CHURCHYARDS CHAP. XXVI. 

of the bed, and at the other end of the chamber a high 
bracket, on which stood the night-lamp, before a large 
china vase which Millicent had always been wont to 
keep replenished with flowers or evergreens. 

To what trifles (as drowning creatures cling to straws) 
will the miserable, the almost hopeless, cling for conso- 
lation ! Vernon's heart beat more equally — his breath 
came freer at sight of that insignificant object, for the 
vase was filled with verdure. Were the boughs fresh or 
withered ? He drove away the officious suggestion, for 
his soul yearned for the faintest shadow of comfort. If 
not her hand, Nora's had filled the vase. The dear one 
herself, therefore, must still be susceptible of pleasure 
from objects which would cease to interest the dying. Was 
it yet possible? But though Hope's passing whisper 
was eagerly caught at, Vernon dared not dwell upon its 
soothing sweetness. He dared not anticipate — he dared 
not think ; and now he would have given worlds to ex- 
change that terrible stillness which yet pervaded all things 
— that bodily inaction to which he was condemned — for 
the universal stir of human life, and some occasion that 
should call upon him for violent corporeal exertion. Any 
thing, every thing, would have been welcome, which might 
have afforded scope for the nervous restlessness that now 
agitated his whole frame, to expend itself, or have 
gained the slightest relief — the most transient diversion 
of thought — for the mental fever, which increased with 
every lingering moment of suspense. But as yet, except 
the expiring gleam of that pale watchlight, no sign or 
sound of life was seen or heard within the cottage ; and 
without, so profound and death-like was the hush of 
nature, that Vernon could have fancied its mighty pulses 
had stood still, or beat only in his own throbbing arteries. 
The gloomy daybreak advanced so tardily, that none 
but quite near objects were yet visible through the sea of 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 389 

white unwholesome vapour that now seemed melting- into 
drizzling rain — now condensing- itself into a solid wall 
around the cottage, and a few yards of its small territory. 
The dank moisture clung- like transparent glue to the 
bare leafless branches of the deciduous trees ; and, collect- 
ing- into larg-e globules at the extremities of the heavy 
drooping heads of the dark evergreens, and along the 
cottage eaves, dropped to the ground with sullen plashes, 
dismally breaking, at intervals, the otherwise universal 
silence. 

Vernon still watched the casement of that little cham- 
ber, within whose walls his all of earthly interest — his 
hopes, his fears, his very being, hung suspended upon a 
dread uncertainty — a flitting life — a fluttering breath — 
perhaps at that very moment passing away for ever ! 

All hitherto had remained quiet in the chamber. Sud- 
denly a figure passed slowly across, between the curtained 
window and the bed's foot — a tall dark figure that could 
be only Nora's. It was stationary for a moment before 
the lamp, which, as day advanced, had condensed its pale 
rays into a small red globe of flame, and that dying spark 
was gone, when the tall form moved away from the spot 
where it had been, and advanced towards the window, 
which was partially unclosed, and a wrinkled hand and 
arm put forth from beneath the still drawn blind, to secure 
the lattice. 

" And the morning air, so cold and damp, to breathe 
on that dear sufferer ! — Could Nora be so incautious ? " 
And Vernon advanced his hand unconsciously, as if to 
close the casement ; but he was unnoticed from thence, 
and the female form receded. 

" Now, then," thought Vernon, " now in a minute, 
I shall know my fate," — and passing stealthily through 
the little gate, (for he did not wish his footsteps to be 
heard in the sick-chamber,) he advanced close to the 



390 CHURCHYARDS. — CHAP. XXVI. 

house, of which the front door was still fast, and the lower 
shutters unopened. A while he stood beneath the porch, 
listening- for the approach of some one from within, to 
whom he might make cautious application for admittance ; 
but, soon impatient of fruitless waiting, he moved away 
to steal round the corner of the cottage, and seek admit- 
tance at the back entrance. As he stepped guardedly 
from the porch, his eyes glanced on a large white rose- 
tree that grew beside it, and, struck with sudden recollec- 
tion, he stopped to look sorrowfully on the well-known 
shrub. There were yet a few yellow leaves upon the 
straggling branches, and many ripening berries, indicating 
the past profuseness of its summer bloom. But from the 
stem on which Vernon's eyes were riveted with painful 
interest, the flower-sprig he looked for had been recently 
cut off. " The last rose of summer" had not been left 
to wither on its stalk, though the hand was far away that 
should have stuck the late blossom in Millicent's bosom. 
Just as Vernon turned the corner of the building, he heard 
the withdrawing of a bolt from the kitchen-door, and as 
it slowly opened, he was moving forward with nervous 
precipitation, when the sight of a stranger startled him 
for a moment from his purpose, and before he had time 
to recover himself and accost her, the young girl, carry- 
ing a milking stool and pail, was already half-way down 
the garden walk in her way to the field and cow-shed. 
A word — the slightest sound would have reached and re- 
called her, but Vernon shuddered and was silent. Again 
— as the decisive moment drew near, he shrunk from 
certainty — especially from a stranger's lips. He would 
seek Nora — he would learn his fate from her. So suffer- 
ing the young girl to pass on out of sight, he gently 
pushed open the door which she had left ajar, and stole 
noiselessly into the kitchen. Its comfortless disordered 
state sadly contrasted the beautiful neatness and arrange- 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 391 

ment, which had been wont in happier days to distinguish 
poor Nora's peculiar territory. The hearth was heaped 
with ashes of long- accumulation, and the embers of a fire 
that had evidently burned all night, still emitted a feeble 
warmth, and dull red light from the lower bars of the 
grate, to which they had sunk far beneath the trivet and 
large black kettle, from which issued no cheerful morning 
sound of bubbling water. Unwashed tea-things, with 
fragments of bread, butter, and cheese, and an end of tal- 
low candle turned down into the pool of grease which had 
accumulated in the deep tin candlestick, were huddled 
together on the slopped and soiled little round table, that 
it had been Nora's pride to keep bright and polished as a 
looking-glass. Scattered plates and cups, a waiter with 
cut and squeezed lemon, and other evidences of late at- 
tendance on a sick-room, were all noted by Vernon with 
deepest interest, and if the survey relieved him of his 
worst fears, he sighed heavily at thoughts of the best he 
had to anticipate. A glass half filled with lemonade stood 
on a salver on the dresser ; he raised, and put it to his 
lips, (for perhaps hers had recently touched its brim,) and 
as he did so, called to mind her affecting desire to receive 
from his hand another cup, which now he might be so soon 
called on to present to her. " If it mustbe — strengthen 
me for the task, oh God !" was the inward ejaculation of 
a heart that could yet scarcely bring itself to add, " Thy 
will be done." • 

Still Nora appeared not; and reasonably concluding 
that, leaving the young charwoman to attend to house- 
hold concerns, she had kept her station in the sick-chamber, 
he stole from the kitchen along the matted passage to- 
wards the staircase — but the door of the little parlour 
being open, he mechanically stopped at it. The shutters 
had been removed since he looked at the windows from 
without, and now the formal arrangement of the furni- 



392 CHURCHYARDS. — CHAP. XXVI. 

ture — the cold, dreary, uninhabited look of the once 
cheerful little sitting-room, struck him forcibly, with a 
more painful sense of change, than even the unwonted 
disorder of poor Nora's kitchen. As he stood on the 
threshold in mournful contemplation, a shrill sound (one 
of discordant loudness to his morbidly sensitive ear) broke 
the deep silence. It was the awaking note of Millicent's 
canary bird, whose cage hung near the window ; and as 
the little creature began to plume itself on the perch, and 
pour out a more sustained matin in its innocent joy, Ver- 
non looked reproachfully at the unconscious favourite. 
But his attention was soon directed to other objects (all 
to him how eloquent!) and at last it rested on a vacant spot 
on the wall opposite. He started at perceiving that 
Colonel Aboyne's picture, which used to hang there, had 
been removed, but only as it seemed to a table in the 
middle of the room, on which lay a framed picture, together 
with a white paper parcel, which was placed upon its 
glazed surface. Vernon felt as if the whole current of his 
blood rushed suddenly to the heart and brain. A moment 
he stood gazing as if spell-bound — then, with one despe- 
rate impulse, sprang forward, caught up the parcel — as- 
certained that the portrait beneath was indeed his friend's 
— his promised legacy ! and tore open the paper, which 
was superscribed in faint and uneven characters, " For my 
dear Horace." Franticly he tore it open — but one 
glance at its contents, and his fingers relaxed their hold 
— his sight became dizzy, and he reeled back for sup- 
port against the wall. What baleful aspect had paralysed 
him thus ? That only of a withered rose, and a long lock 
of glossy raven hair. 

In some minds (happily constituted are those !) how 
indigenous — how indestructible — how elastic is hope ! Af- 
ter awhile it faintly revived in Vernon's bosom, from the 
seeming annihilation that succeeded that sudden shock. 



GRAVE OF THE BROKEN HEART. 393 

But feeble, indeed, was the reviving struggle — an expiring 
effort ! a last stand against despair. Almost the worst was 
known. But still a possibility remained, . the thought of 
which perhaps helped to nerve Vernon's resolve to know 
all immediately. Without further pause or deliberation, 
but still with noiseless footsteps, he ran up the short flight 
of stairs that led to Millicent's sleeping-room — and with 
cautious tread, and held-in breath, stole to the half-open 
door. All within was profound stillness — and he stopped 
on the threshold to listen, and to send forward one fear- 
ful glance. The white curtains of the bed were close 
drawn on the side towards him, as he stood still half be- 
hind the door ; but he fancied — surely it was not fancy 
— that there was a stir of life — of breath — a gentle and 
scarce perceptible rustling — as if some one moved. His 
heart beat quicker, as he advanced a step onward, and 
then beheld Nora seated in a high-backed chair at the 
further corner of the bed's foot, towards which her face 
was turned, and her eyes fixed in the direction of the pil- 
lows, with that solemn and profound interest with which 
we watch the slumbers of those who are " sick even 
unto death." But, apparently, she had only desisted 
for a moment from an employment, the nature of which 
Vernon's first glance eagerly detected. Her fingers 
still held the strings of one of Millicent's plain mourn- 
ing caps — (he knew it well) — the broad hems of which 
she had been running and crimping with accurate neat- 
ness, and across her knees and the arm of the chair 
lay a long white dressing-gown. Was there not evidence 
of life in those provident preparations ? He began to 
fear — Oh, blessed fear ! — that he might disturb the dear 
one's slumbers, should his unexpected appearance too sud- 
denly startle her faithful nurse, whose strongly marked 
countenance told a fearful tale to Vernon of all she had 
lately undergone. But just as he was shrinking back 



394 CHURCHYARDS. CHAP. XXVI. 

from the chamber, her eyes slowly returning from this 
mournful contemplation to her suspended task, caught sight 
of his receding figure — and strangely was she affected by 
the apparition. No word — no exclamation or sound 
escaped her lips ; — nor did she move from her chair — nor 
otherwise testify her consciousness of his unexpected 
presence, than by drawing up her tall gaunt figure as she 
sat, erect and rigid, to its utmost dimensions, and fixing 
on him her large dilating eyes, with a ghastly undefin- 
ableness of expression which chilled his very heart's blood, 
though he had no power to withdraw his own from the 
unnatural fascination ; and when, after a few seconds of 
that wordless communion, she arose slowly, and standing 
still and upright on the same spot, without one feature 
relaxing from its stony fixedness, beckoned him forward 
with one hand, while with the forefinger of the other she 
pointed to the bed's head, he obeyed mechanically — almost 
unconsciously — till he felt the grasp of that cold bony 
hand ; and, following with his eyes the direction of her 
pointing finger, beheld all that was still mortal of Milli- 
cent Aboyne. — The immortal spirit had ascended to Him, 
" with whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turn- 
ing." 



THE END. 



EDINBURGH: PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND HUGHES, 
PAUL'S WORK, CANONGATE. 






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